The phone's torch lightened two steps in front of me as I tiptoed in the dark house, heading to my bedroom.

Jenna had long gone to bed as Adam informed me when I last called him.
Fatima, Amélie and I ended up having a girls’ night. It’d been a long time since I’d had this much fun. Fatima’s house was the perfect place for it. No husbands and no kids.

My painted nails came into the light as I reached the door handle and I stifled a giggle. I’d never have chosen a colour this vibrant, lemon green, but under that tent in Fatima’s living room I couldn’t say no. The homemade face masks were a whole other story. I swear, that girl just made them up. A chuckle escaped my lips as I remembered Amélie’s face tight with the white-egg-and-curcuma mask. As it dried, she couldn’t talk or smile. I covered my mouth and nose as the silent laughter shook my body.

Her face was like a plastic surgery gone wrong.

I leaned on the door, inhaling deeply to control my laughter as tears pricked my eyes.

A faint aroma of cooked food lingered in the living room.

“Nadine.”

Adam called and I froze in place. My face fell from both surprise and anger.

More than a thousand time I told him not to yell when Jenna’s sleeping.

I stomped towards the kitchen where his voice came from. I found him hovering over a plate on the table with an upside down pan over it. He pulled the pan up slowly as steam seeped from the sides, then flipped it when empty and put it on the table. He smiled at the perfect golden colour of the tahdig (Iranian scorched rice).

“I made us dinner.” His proud smile widened as he looked at me.

I eyed the bag on the countertop, rising my eyebrows. Adam couldn’t cook and that wasn't for lack of trying. I suspected that the cooking skills lobe in his brain was under-developed. A congenital anomaly or cavemen specie's specificity? That had yet to be decided.

“You’re sure you cooked that?”

“I didn’t cook it. Mom did. I prepared the table.”

He turned towards the bag and retrieved another pan. Khoresh (stew), maybe?

I’d have laughed if we were like before. I’d have found it cute, but the way he neatly placed the plates over that new tablecloth. The three chamomile flowers on the little vase and the hopeful look in his eyes—the same look I used to have nights after nights for him to crash it every time by not showing up or by being too tired to eat with me—made my jaw tighten.

That was me in our first marriage. I just wanted a chance with him, but that was too much to ask. I wasn’t worthy of it.

Why would he be now? Why should I consider his feeling? Why should I care?

He placed the stew, now in a bowl, on the table.

“Let’s eat,” he said motioning to the food as he lowered himself on the chair. When I didn’t budge, our gazes clashed and his confusion turned into an icy glare as he read everything on my face.

This is not a second chance.

“I ate with the girls.” I turned on my heels and left the kitchen before he could manage to say anything. However, the slamming of palms against the table and the angry scrape of the chair reached my ears as I entered the corridor leading to my bedroom.

Serves you well.

The idea of the fire that once burned my chest was now eating him inside made my lips twitch in a satisfied grin.

I entered the room. His ever-present cologne filled my nostrils. A little, insignificant, barely-there traitor guilt nudged me in the chest, but it was easily ignored as I reminded myself of the greater good.

This is not a second chance.

Why didn’t he want to make an effort then, when I almost begged him to? Why try now?

Every memory of me waiting like an idiot for him to grace me with his presence, of me learning how to cook his favourite food, of the numerous surprise lunches—that he took and sent me away because he’d eat while working—and those sappy date-nights I made reminded me of how stupid I was.

A ping from my phone pulled me out of the gloomy mood that marked the end of this great day. I unlocked the screen and tapped the message's notification. Fatima’s patchy red face filled the screen. My hand flew to my face, patting my cheek and forehead. Her face looked bad. I couldn’t help but laugh.

Nadi: Oh, my god!

Three dots appeared on the screen then were replaced with words.

Fati: Google lied to me. You CAN’T scrub your face with salt.

Nadi: Oh, you, dork. Hahaha.

She had a sensitive skin how did she do that to herself.

Fati: It huuurts 😭😭

Nadi: Put some ice on it. Hahahaha

Ami: What? Hahahaha. Fatima! You deserve it for what you did to me. The green dye won’t go completely from my hair. YOU SAID IT’S TEMPORARY.

Fati: IT IS TEMPORARY.

Ami:...

I put the phone on the nightstand and went to change. My spoiled mood didn’t let me enjoy their banter. My eyes were too heavy. I needed to crash on the bed and sleep.

But he has to come now, I thought as the door clicked open and footsteps came closer. I hurried to stick my head out of my t-shirt and pull it down over my shorts so I can glare at him.

“So you’re punishing me? That’s what this is about?” he asked, arms crossed over his chest. He was still in his work outfit, but his sleeves were rolled up and few buttons were open.

“Adam, let’s just sleep.” I sighted as I pulled the covers, the bed calling my aching body.

“No, you’ve been avoiding me. We need to talk this out.”

“Not tonight. I’m tired.”

God, I sound like him. I thought as I remembered many variations of this conversation when I was the one who wanted to talk.

“Nadine, don’t be difficult.”

I slammed the covers back and turned to him, my hands on my hips, glaring.

“Funny how I’m the difficult one now.”

He sighed, putting his hands in his pockets.
“So, you’re punishing me,” he said with a flat voice.

“Adam, not everything is about you. I tried too many times. I can’t do that again. I can’t go through all those emotions again. I can’t. You weren’t there to see the effort I put in this relationship. You didn’t see how your indifference affected me. You didn’t see me. Now because you felt like it, or whatever, you expect me to seize the opportunity? You’re a little too late.” I fumed as I was sucked back to three years ago. This overdue conversation flooded me with emotions.

“But I’m trying now. I was wrong. What am I supposed to do? Erase what I did? I’m asking you to let me do things right this time. Why don’t you want to give me one chance?” He looked at me with frustration and confusion.

Well, that was the worst thing to say. I don’t want him to erase it I want him to regret it.

The thought didn’t leave my lips. His insensitivity hurt me. It was like saying what’s done is done, get over it.

Well, I’m not getting over it and he won’t have his answers.

I looked him in the eyes, drawling as I should when speaking to a slow person.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I cannot. I physically can’t.”

Despite me, my voice rose and tears welled up in my eyes.

“You destroyed me. I feel empty inside. Because of you. Don’t ask for a second chance. I can’t let you drag me back to that hole. I can’t—”

“You don’t trust me,” he said. His voice was calm but sad.

My eyes widened at the realisation. I never found a name to put on what I was feeling, but now that he said it, it clicked.

I don’t trust him. I don’t trust that he’ll keep his promise. I don’t trust that he won’t fall back to his old habits. I don’t even know if he changed them. I don’t trust him.

I raised my teary eyes to him to find his scrutinising me as I assimilate this new information. My heart hurt for the idea. Before our first marriage, Adam was my rock. My best friend. My secret keeper. He helped me and listened to me whenever things got hard at home. That was my Adam.

Not this man who’s approaching me to sooth a pain he wasn’t aware of its extent. My Adam always knew what to do even if he didn’t speak much.

I jerked back from him. I didn't want his touch. I want my Adam. The friend I lost, but I was too hurt and angry to mourn.

I threw myself on the bed, burying my face on the pillow, but my wails were too loud to hide.

He never came to my side. The other side of the bed dipped under his weight, then all movement ceased.

My Adam would never let me cry myself to sleep, but this man did.