Chapter 4 — The Man Who Asked

My mother waited until I lifted my head before she spoke again.

"You aren't staying in that apartment, are you?"

"I'm at a hotel."

"Does he know which one?"

"No."

She nodded. Then she closed her eyes, exhausted by a conversation that had cost her more than she wanted me to see.

I stayed until she fell asleep.

In the hallway, my phone showed six messages from Preston. The first was a photograph of an airport lounge. The last asked whether I'd ordered the wedding favors.

He had read my breakup message. He had seen the suitcase. He had heard me say I didn't want to marry him.

Somehow, he still needed forty miniature bottles of whiskey tied with ivory ribbon.

I opened Nathan's conversation instead.

Can you talk?

His video call came a minute later.

He was in a kitchen with a green cabinet door hanging crookedly behind him. His hair was longer than in the photograph he'd sent. There was a smear of white dust on his forearm.

"Sorry," he said. "I was sanding something."

"Your kitchen?"

"Client's kitchen. Mine is considerably less impressive."

He stepped into another room and shut the door.

"What happened?"

I told him about the phone call, the photograph, the ring. When I got to my mother, I had to stop.

Nathan didn't fill the silence. He put his phone on something steady and waited.

"She's stable," I said eventually. "But I apologized to Sienna because I couldn't think past the bills."

"You were trying to protect your mother."

"I hate that he knew I'd do it."

His mouth tightened, but he didn't ask for Preston's number or announce what he'd do if they met.

"What do you need to get through tomorrow?"

Such a small question. I could answer it.

"An estimate from the care center. A meeting with my manager. Somewhere for Mom to go when she's discharged."

"And have you eaten?"

"A vending-machine sandwich."

"I'll refrain from asking which machine."

I laughed once, unexpectedly.

He smiled, and for a second I saw the boy who'd lived two houses down from us. Nathan had fixed the loose chain on my bike, then made me do it myself the next time. He'd shown me how to study for an exam without rewriting the entire textbook.

When his family moved to Ireland, we'd been seventeen and twenty. He'd told me he wanted to take me out when he visited. I had said distance wouldn't work, and we'd drifted into occasional birthday messages.

Now he was looking at me without trying to make my decision smaller.

"I accepted the Dublin position," I said.

His eyebrows lifted.

"You did?"

"Last night."

"Audrey, that's brilliant."

He said it before asking anything about us.

Something in my chest loosened.

"There are people here who help families arrange care," he continued. "If your mother eventually wants to come over, I can find contacts. Information only. You decide what to do with it."

"That would help."

"And Thursday? You're still flying?"

"If I can get everything settled."

"Would you like a lift from the airport?"

I said yes.

He picked up a pen, wrote down my flight number, and read it back.

Then his expression changed slightly.

"There's one thing I should say before you get here."

I waited.

"I'm happy you called me. More than happy. But I don't want you having to guess what I mean by that."

"Nathan—"

"I know. You've just left someone. I'm not asking you for anything. I only don't want to pretend I feel less than I do and make this confusing later."

I looked down at the cardigan on my lap.

"I can't promise anything."

"Then don't."

When we disconnected, I sat for a while without moving.

The next morning, I took my spreadsheet to the care meeting.

Mom was well enough to participate. She rejected two expensive extras immediately and agreed to remain for the additional days recommended by her team. Afterward, her sister Denise would stay with her at home until we arranged the next stage.

Denise had already called twice, offended that I'd thought I needed to handle everything alone.

The coordinator printed the revised estimate. I checked the dates, paid the upcoming balance from my account, and kept the receipt.

Mom changed her contact permissions herself.

"My daughter and my sister," she said. "Nobody else."

At noon, my manager called.

"I was afraid you were turning us down," she said.

"So was I."

We settled a start date for the following month. The relocation payment would arrive before then; she connected me with the support service that could help me compare care arrangements rather than promise to solve them.

The figures were still figures. I still needed a budget.

But none of them required Preston's permission.

That afternoon, I met a colleague outside his apartment. She waited while the concierge let me upstairs to collect the rest of my belongings. Preston had not changed the access code. His confidence was useful for once.

I took my books, my clothes, and the framed photograph of my mother at my graduation.

I left the gold bracelet in its box.

On the dining table lay an Iceland itinerary addressed to Preston and Sienna. Their names were printed together above a reservation for a geothermal spa.

I didn't photograph it. I already had enough reasons.

Back at the hotel, I called Maeve.

"I'm keeping Saturday," I said.

"And the ceremony?"

"It won't be the legal wedding we originally discussed. I need to talk to you about what it can be instead."

She explained the options without trying to sell me a replacement future. We reduced the guest count, released services I no longer needed, and made a new list.

I would pay for the remaining balance myself.

"One other thing," I said. "Preston is no longer authorized to approve anything on my booking. No schedule, invoices, photographs, or access information."

"I'll send you the amended authorization."

"Has his Iceland coordinator already received the files he requested?"

"Yes. I have their contact if you need it."

"Keep it, please. I may need to send a cancellation notice directly."

Maeve emailed the amendment while we were still talking.

For four years, I'd been waiting to become Mrs. Whitmore.

I signed the new document with the name I already had.