Updated Nov 23, 2025 • ~10 min read
Wednesday arrived with nervous energy I couldn’t shake.
I changed outfits three times before settling on jeans, a soft sweater, and the comfortable boots Jeremy had requested. Casual but put-together.
Like I wasn’t trying too hard. Even though I definitely was.
He picked me up at six, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a leather jacket.
“Ready for your surprise?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The drive took us to the Art Institute of Chicago. I looked at him, confused.
“It’s Wednesday evening. They’re closed.”
“For the general public, yes.” He parked, came around to open my door. “But not for private tours.”
“You didn’t.”
“I absolutely did.” He offered his hand. “Come on, Rose. Let me show you something.”
The museum after hours was magic. Empty halls, soft lighting, just us and centuries of art.
A curator named Margaret greeted us. “Mr. Patterson, Ms. Greenwood. Everything’s ready as requested.”
“Thank you, Margaret.”
She disappeared, leaving us alone in the European painting wing.
“How did you even arrange this?” I asked.
“I’m on the board. Have been for two years. Donated enough that they occasionally let me do ridiculous things like book private tours for the woman I’m trying to win back.”
“Two years? You’ve been on the museum board for two years?”
“You said once that I only cared about work. That I had no interests outside the company.” He guided me toward a Monet. “You were right. After you left, I realized I’d built a fortune but not a life. So I started actually living. Museums, cooking classes, travel. Things we’d talked about doing together.”
The admission hit hard. “You did all that because of me?”
“I did it because losing you showed me I’d become exactly what I feared—successful but empty.” He stopped in front of Water Lilies. “I remembered you loved this one. Dragged me here on one of our first dates. I was looking at my phone, responding to emails. You got so angry.”
I remembered. I’d threatened to leave him there if he didn’t put the phone away.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For every time I chose work over you. For every moment I made you feel invisible.”
“Jeremy—”
“Let me finish.” He turned to face me. “I spent five years building Patterson Technologies into what it is. And it’s impressive. Valuable. Worth hundreds of millions. But you know what I realized? All of it—every dollar, every success, every achievement—feels hollow without you to share it with.”
My throat tightened. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.” He touched my face. “I’d give up every cent, every success, every bit of it if it meant getting you back. And I know that sounds like manipulation or empty promises. But Rose, I’ve already started.”
“Started what?”
“Restructuring. I hired a COO last month. Promoted my VP of Operations to president. I’m transitioning to chairman—strategic vision, board meetings, but day-to-day operations run without me.”
I stared. “You’re stepping back from the company?”
“I’m choosing balance. Something I should have done years ago.” He stepped closer. “I can’t change the past. But I can show you a different future. One where you’re not competing with my phone for attention.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “What if it’s too late? What if we’ve both changed too much?”
“Then we learn who we are now. Together.” He laced his fingers through mine. “Come on. I want to show you something else.”
He led me through galleries, stopping at pieces I’d loved years ago and new acquisitions I’d never seen.
At the Chagall, he said, “I bought you something.”
“Jeremy, no—”
“Not expensive. Just… meaningful.” He pulled out a small wrapped box.
Inside was a keychain. A tiny, enameled replica of the Water Lilies painting.
“For your lopsided pottery bowl,” he said. “So every day when you come home, you remember this. Remember that I’m trying. That I see you.”
I turned the keychain over in my hands, overwhelmed.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He checked his watch. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Good. Because I made dinner.”
“You made dinner?”
“Told you I learned to cook. Come on.”
We left the museum and drove to his penthouse in River North. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, modern furniture that managed to feel warm instead of sterile.
Very different from the tiny apartment we’d shared.
“This is your place?” I asked.
“Home base. Though it’s felt more like a hotel than a home.” He shrugged off his jacket. “Make yourself comfortable. Wine’s already breathing.”
He moved to the open kitchen while I explored. Family photos on shelves—his mom, sister, even one of us from our wedding.
“You kept our wedding photo?”
“Of course.” He pulled ingredients from the fridge. “That was the best day of my life. Even if I screwed up everything after.”
I watched him cook. The ease with which he moved, chopping vegetables, boiling water for pasta, creating carbonara sauce from scratch.
“You really did learn to cook.”
“I told you I did.”
“I just didn’t expect you to be good at it.”
He grinned. “Ye of little faith.”
Twenty minutes later, we sat at his dining table with perfect carbonara, Caesar salad, and crusty bread.
I took a bite. It was incredible.
“Okay, I’m impressed.”
“High praise from the woman who once banned me from the kitchen after I burned water.”
“You didn’t burn water. You forgot water was boiling and it evaporated.”
“Semantics.” He poured more wine. “Tell me something. About your life these past five years. Something real.”
I thought about it. “I was lonely. Even with Charlie, with work, with friends. I felt like I was going through motions instead of actually living.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
“Sometimes. Less, lately.” I met his eyes. “Which should probably concern me. Considering the source of the change.”
“Because I’m the one making you feel alive?”
“Because you’re chaos. And chaos is exhausting.”
“But it’s not boring.”
“No. It’s definitely not boring.” I sipped wine. “Your turn. Something real.”
“I saw a therapist for two years because I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t focus. Every therapist said the same thing—I was grieving. Not just the divorce, but who I’d been with you. The version of myself I actually liked.”
The raw vulnerability cracked my chest open.
“I didn’t know.”
“How could you? We weren’t speaking. And I was too proud to reach out, to admit I’d made the biggest mistake of my life letting you go.”
“So why now? Why show up after five years?”
“Because I saw the engagement announcement. Saw you smiling next to someone else. And I realized I’d been lying to myself—telling myself you were better off, that I’d done the right thing letting you go. But seeing you about to marry someone else?” He shook his head. “I couldn’t let that happen without at least trying. Even if you hated me for it.”
“I should hate you.”
“I know.”
“You’ve completely destroyed my life.”
“I know that too.”
“So why don’t I?” The question I’d been asking myself for weeks. “Why can’t I just hate you and move on?”
“Maybe because you know what I know. That what we had—what we could have—is worth fighting for. Worth the chaos and risk and potential heartbreak.”
I set down my wine glass. “You talk a good game, Jeremy Patterson. But words are easy. Actions are what matter.”
“Then let me show you.” He stood, offered his hand. “Dance with me.”
“There’s no music.”
He pulled out his phone, queued something up. Soft piano filled the apartment.
The song from our wedding. Our first dance.
“Jeremy—”
“I know every step. Do you?”
I remembered. How could I forget? We’d practiced for weeks, determined to nail it.
I took his hand.
He pulled me close, and we danced in his living room with the city lights twinkling behind us. The steps came back easily—muscle memory taking over.
“I messed this up the first time,” he murmured. “Tripped during the second spin. You covered for me perfectly.”
“I remember. You were so embarrassed.”
“I was terrified. Kept thinking I didn’t deserve you. That you’d realize it eventually and leave.”
“Turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“Yeah.” He spun me, pulled me back. “But maybe this time I can prove I’m worth keeping.”
The song ended. We stood in his living room, holding each other, the past and present colliding.
“I should go,” I said.
“You should.” He didn’t let go. “But you don’t want to.”
“No. I don’t.” The admission felt dangerous. “But I’m going anyway. Because one of us needs to be smart about this.”
“Smart is overrated.” But he released me. “I’ll drive you home.”
“I can get a cab—”
“Rose. I’m driving you home. Non-negotiable.”
The drive was quiet. Charged. His hand found mine again, and I didn’t pull away.
At my door, he walked me up.
“Thank you for tonight,” I said. “The museum, dinner, everything. It was perfect.”
“It was supposed to be. You deserve perfect.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“Maybe not. But we can try to be perfect for each other. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
I looked up at him, this man I’d loved and lost and was maybe, possibly, dangerously close to loving again.
“Kiss me,” I said.
His eyes darkened. “Rose—”
“You said you wouldn’t until I was sure. I’m not sure. But I want it anyway. So kiss me.”
“If I kiss you now—”
“I know. I know what it means. Do it anyway.”
He cupped my face, searching my eyes for any hesitation.
Then his lips met mine.
Soft at first. Testing. Then deeper when I responded, when my hands fisted in his shirt and pulled him closer.
Five years of want poured into that kiss. Anger and longing and desperate hope that maybe this could work.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against mine.
“That was a mistake,” I whispered.
“Best mistake of my life.” He kissed me again, softer. “Come upstairs with me.”
“No.”
“Rose—”
“I want to. God, I want to. But if I do, I’ll be using sex to avoid dealing with everything else.” I stepped back, even though it hurt. “We need to do this right. Not just fall back into physical chemistry.”
His jaw clenched. “You’re right. I hate it, but you’re right.”
“Goodnight, Jeremy.”
“Goodnight, Rose.” He caught my hand before I could go inside. “But know this—I’m falling in love with you all over again. And this time, I’m not making the same mistakes.”
He left me standing in my doorway, lips tingling, heart racing, completely undone.
Inside, I touched my mouth where his lips had been.
I’d kissed my husband.
And it felt like coming home.
My phone buzzed.
I can still taste you. This is torture.
Good. You deserve to suffer a little.
A little? Rose, I’ve been suffering for five years. Tonight was beautiful and agonizing in equal measure.
Poor baby
Mock me all you want. But you kissed me back. You wanted that as much as I did.
He was right. I had. I did.
Goodnight, Jeremy
Sweet dreams, wife. Of me, preferably.
Your ego is showing
My honesty is showing. There’s a difference. Day five down. 177 to go.
I fell asleep with a smile on my face and the keychain clutched in my hand.
Maybe this was crazy.
Maybe we’d crash and burn again.
But for the first time in five years, I felt something other than contentment.
I felt alive.
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