Updated Nov 23, 2025 • ~10 min read
Sunday morning, I woke to three texts from Jeremy.
Address: Ember & Oak, River North. Reservations at 7.
Dress code: whatever makes you feel beautiful
Looking forward to this, Rose. To doing it right this time.
I stared at my phone, heart doing complicated things in my chest.
This was insane. Dating my husband. Pretending we were strangers starting fresh when we had five years of history and hurt between us.
But I’d agreed. And some masochistic part of me wanted to see if he meant it. If he’d actually changed.
Julie arrived at noon with coffee and judgment.
“So you’re actually doing this.”
“Six months. That’s all.”
“Six months of dating the man who broke your heart, while technically still married to him, after blowing up your engagement and becoming office gossip.” She sipped her latte. “This is either the most romantic thing ever or a complete disaster waiting to happen.”
“Probably both.”
“What did Charlie say?”
The question made my chest ache. “I called him last night. Told him I needed time to figure things out. He said he’d wait, but I could hear it in his voice. He’s already letting go.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“Relieved.” The admission felt like betrayal. “Which makes me a terrible person.”
“It makes you honest.” Julie squeezed my hand. “Charlie’s a good man. But he was never your person. We both knew it.”
“Jeremy’s not my person either. He proved that five years ago.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you were both too young and stupid to know how to be each other’s person.” She stood. “Either way, you’re going on this date. So let’s figure out what you’re wearing.”
Two hours and my entire wardrobe later, I’d settled on a deep green dress—elegant but not trying too hard, fitted but not desperate.
“You look gorgeous,” Julie said. “Now remember: make him work for it. Don’t just fall back into old patterns because the chemistry’s there.”
“I won’t.”
“And if he pulls any manipulative crap, you call me immediately.”
“I will.”
She hugged me tight. “I hope he’s worth it, Rose. I really do.”
Seven o’clock arrived too fast.
Jeremy knocked precisely on time. I opened the door and forgot how to breathe.
He wore dark slacks and a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Simple. Devastating. And holding flowers—pale pink peonies, my favorites.
“You remembered,” I said.
“I remember everything about you.” He handed me the flowers. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you.”
“Ready?”
I grabbed my clutch, tried to ignore how my pulse raced when his hand found my lower back.
The restaurant was perfect. Intimate without being over-the-top romantic. Candlelit tables, exposed brick, the kind of place that felt special but not performative.
“I wanted somewhere we’d never been,” Jeremy said as we were seated. “Fresh start means fresh memories.”
The gesture hit harder than expected.
Our waiter brought wine—a Pinot Noir I mentioned loving once, years ago. Jeremy had remembered that too.
“So,” he said once we were alone. “First date protocol. We’re supposed to ask getting-to-know-you questions, right?”
“That’s the tradition.”
“Seems ridiculous when I already know you prefer your coffee with too much cream, you hate olives, and you sing off-key in the shower.”
Despite myself, I smiled. “I do not sing off-key.”
“You absolutely do. It’s adorable.” He sipped his wine. “But fine. Let’s play the game. What’s something about you I don’t know?”
I thought about it. “I took a pottery class last year. Terrible at it. But I liked the quiet. The focus.”
“Did you keep any pieces?”
“One. A lopsided bowl that I use for keys.”
“I want to see it.”
“Maybe. If you earn it.” I turned the question back. “What about you? What don’t I know?”
“I learned to cook. Properly, not just ordering takeout.” He looked almost shy. “After you left, eating alone in restaurants felt pathetic. So I took classes. Turns out I’m decent at it.”
The image of Jeremy in a kitchen, learning to cook for himself because eating alone hurt too much—it cracked something in my chest.
“What do you make?”
“Italian mostly. Pasta from scratch. Risotto. I make a carbonara you’d actually approve of.”
“I’ll believe it when I taste it.”
“Challenge accepted.”
The waiter brought our appetizers. We ate and talked, conversation flowing easier than it should.
“Tell me about Morrison Creative,” Jeremy said. “How’d you end up there?”
“After I left, I needed work. Something creative but stable. They were hiring junior designers. I worked my way up.” I stabbed a scallop. “You know all this. You’ve been stalking me, remember?”
“I know the facts. I want your experience. What you felt. What it meant.”
The distinction mattered. “It meant proving I could build something on my own. That I wasn’t just your wife. That I had value separate from you.”
“You always had value separate from me.”
“Did I? Because when we were married, my entire identity was ‘Jeremy’s wife.’ The girl who married the tech genius. The woman who supported him while he built an empire.”
“That’s not how I saw you.”
“Isn’t it? Be honest, Jeremy. When you introduced me at events, what did you say?”
His jaw tightened. “This is my wife, Roselyn.”
“Exactly. Not ‘this is Roselyn, she’s an incredible designer’ or ‘this is Rose, she’s brilliant at visual storytelling.’ Just… your wife. Like that was my only defining feature.”
“I was proud of you—”
“You were proud of having me. There’s a difference.” I set down my fork. “I’m not blaming you entirely. I let it happen. I made you my whole world instead of building my own life. But that’s why Morrison matters. It’s mine. My career, my success, my identity.”
He absorbed that. “You’re right. I didn’t support your career the way I should have. I was so focused on building the company, I didn’t see what I was taking from you.”
The acknowledgment felt significant.
“What about you?” I asked. “Patterson Technologies is massive now. What’s that like?”
“Lonely.” The honesty surprised me. “I built everything I thought I wanted. Success, money, respect. And most days I’d trade it all for one more morning waking up next to you.”
My breath caught.
“Too much?” he asked.
“Maybe. But at least you’re honest.”
“That’s the deal, right? Complete honesty.” He leaned forward. “So honestly? This is the best evening I’ve had in five years. Just talking to you. Watching you light up when you talk about work. Being near you without fighting.”
“We’re not falling back into old patterns,” I warned. “This doesn’t mean—”
“I know. Six months of dating. Separate homes. You can walk away anytime.” His eyes held mine. “But Rose? I’m going to make these six months count. I’m going to prove I’m different. That we could be different.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then at least we’ll know we tried. Really tried, not the half-assed attempt we made before.”
Dinner continued. We talked about everything—books, travel, the terrible reality TV we both secretly watched. He told me about expanding into European markets. I told him about the Henderson campaign that had almost made me quit.
It felt like a first date. But better, because underneath the getting-to-know-you conversation was the foundation of actually knowing each other.
By dessert, I’d almost forgotten this was supposed to be an experiment.
“Dance with me,” Jeremy said when the tiramisu arrived.
“There’s no dance floor.”
“There’s music. And space between tables.” He stood, offered his hand. “Come on, Rose. Take a risk.”
The restaurant had cleared out. Only two other couples remained, lost in their own conversations.
I took his hand.
He pulled me close, one hand on my waist, the other holding mine. We swayed to soft jazz piping through speakers.
“This is ridiculous,” I said.
“This is romantic. There’s a difference.”
“People are staring.”
“Let them.” He spun me gently. “I’ve spent five years not dancing with you. I’m making up for lost time.”
I let my head rest against his chest. Felt his heartbeat, steady and strong.
“I missed this,” he murmured into my hair. “The way you fit against me. Like you were made to be right here.”
“Jeremy—”
“I know. Taking it slow. Building trust. All the things we should have done before.” He pulled back enough to meet my eyes. “But I need you to know: this isn’t a game to me. You’re not a conquest or unfinished business. You’re the woman I love. The only woman I’ve ever loved.”
The declaration should have felt like pressure. Instead, it felt like truth.
“I can’t say that back. Not yet.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m just being honest, like we promised.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here.”
The drive home was quiet. Comfortable. His hand rested on the console between us, and halfway through the drive, mine found it.
He laced our fingers together. Didn’t comment. Just held on.
At my apartment door, he walked me up like a proper date should.
“Thank you for tonight,” he said. “For giving me a chance.”
“Thank you for dinner. It was… really nice.”
“Nice?” His smile was teasing. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Fine. It was lovely. Happy?”
“Getting there.” He leaned in, stopped just short of kissing me. “Can I take you out again? Wednesday?”
“Wednesday’s good.”
“I’ll text you details.” His thumb brushed my cheek. “Sleep well, Rose.”
Then he left. Walked away without pushing for more.
Inside, I leaned against the door, heart racing.
My phone buzzed.
I lied. I’m not sleeping well. I’m thinking about how beautiful you looked tonight and how much I wanted to kiss you goodnight.
I smiled despite myself.
You should have
No. Not until you’re sure. Not until you want me as much as I want you.
What if that never happens?
Then I’ll spend six months being the best date you’ve ever had and hope it’s enough to change your mind. Sweet dreams, wife.
I got ready for bed, replaying the evening. The easy conversation. The dancing. The way he’d looked at me like I was the only person in the room.
Charlie had never looked at me like that.
The realization felt like betrayal and relief in equal measure.
My phone buzzed again. A photo. Jeremy, in his apartment, holding up a lopsided bowl identical to mine.
Pottery class, week three. I kept this because I made it thinking about you.
I stared at the image. At evidence that he’d been as affected by our separation as I had.
You’re making this very hard
Good. I don’t want this to be easy. Easy is what we had with other people. This—us—should be hard. Should be worth fighting for.
Goodnight, Jeremy
Goodnight, Rose. One day down. 182 to go.
He was counting days.
I set my phone down, climbed into bed, and tried not to think about how right it had felt being with him tonight.
How scary it was that part of me wanted to skip the six months and just leap.
But I’d leaped before. Had given him everything without protecting myself.
This time would be different.
This time, he’d have to earn it.
And something told me he was more than willing to try.
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