Chapter 8 - The Night Claire Chose to Knock on His Door
Claire stayed in Chicago three extra days.
She told herself it was because of work.
That was partly true.
On the final evening, rain began falling.
Of course it did.
Rain had become some cosmic joke attached to Vincent Moretti.
Claire sat in her hotel room staring at her phone.
She had Vincent's number memorized.
She did not need to search.
She typed:
Are you home?
Deleted it.
Typed again.
I want to talk.
Deleted.
She almost laughed at herself.
Then remembered something Alexander said.
You are allowed to make a choice without knowing whether it is permanent.
Claire picked up her coat.
Thirty minutes later, she stood outside Vincent’s downtown building.
The doorman recognized her.
His eyes widened.
“Ms. Bennett.”
“Is Vincent home?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Should I announce you?”
Claire considered.
“Yes.”
The doorman called upstairs.
Then smiled.
“He said to send you up.”
She entered the elevator.
Her heart pounded harder with every floor.
The penthouse door opened before she knocked.
Vincent stood barefoot wearing dark pants and a white shirt with rolled sleeves.
He looked genuinely shocked.
“Claire.”
“Hi.”
He stared.
Then moved aside.
“Come in.”
She entered.
The apartment surprised her.
Smaller.
Warmer.
No staff.
Books on a table.
A half-finished cup of coffee.
“Nice place.”
“Thank you.”
“You chose the furniture?”
“Matteo helped.”
“That explains the leather.”
Vincent smiled.
Claire took off her coat.
Neither knew what to do.
This was absurd.
They had once slept in the same bed every night.
Now standing in the same living room felt more intimate.
Vincent gestured.
“Wine?”
“No.”
“Coffee?”
“No.”
“Water?”
“Vincent.”
“Right.”
He stopped.
Claire looked around.
“No Sophia photographs?”
He almost choked.
“None.”
“Bad joke.”
“Terrible.”
Silence.
Claire turned toward him.
“I talked to your mother.”
“I assumed.”
“She tells me too much.”
“She tells everyone too much.”
“She told me about therapy.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“Of course she did.”
Claire smiled.
Then became serious.
“Why?”
“Why therapy?”
“Yes.”
He leaned against the counter.
“Because I didn't want to repeat this.”
“With someone else?”
“With anybody.”
The answer mattered.
He had not changed to win Claire.
He changed because he finally hated the man he had become.
Claire looked down.
“I listened to the old recorder.”
Vincent’s eyes widened.
“You still have that?”
“Yes.”
“I sounded like an idiot.”
“You did.”
“Good.”
She laughed softly.
Then tears unexpectedly filled her eyes.
Vincent noticed.
He did not move toward her.
That mattered too.
Claire wiped them away.
“I remembered how good we were.”
His voice became quiet.
“So did I.”
“And I hated it.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be easier if everything had been bad.”
Vincent nodded.
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“No. I need to say it.”
He straightened.
“Okay.”
“You embarrassed me.”
His face tightened.
“You made me feel needy for asking my husband to choose our marriage.”
“I know.”
“You let Sophia turn me into the jealous wife.”
“Yes.”
“You made me question whether wanting your time was selfish.”
Vincent's eyes filled with something raw.
“I was wrong.”
Claire continued.
“When I left, part of me wanted you to suffer.”
“I did.”
“That's not the point.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“I wanted you to chase me.”
Vincent froze.
Claire laughed sadly.
“Ridiculous, right?”
“No.”
“I wanted you to show up in New York, drag me into your arms, tell me none of it mattered.”
“I almost did.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
“But if you had, I would have hated you.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why I didn't understand myself.”
Vincent’s voice softened.
“You wanted to know you mattered without losing the right to decide.”
Claire stared.
Therapy had been useful.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I understand that now.”
Silence stretched.
Claire walked toward the windows.
Chicago glittered below.
“This city feels different.”
“So do you.”
She turned.
“So do you.”
Vincent did not answer.
Claire took a breath.
“I don't know what I'm doing here.”
“You don't owe me an explanation.”
“That is annoyingly healthy.”
He smiled.
“Dr. Klein will be pleased.”
She laughed.
Then became serious again.
“What happens if I tell you I miss you?”
Vincent’s expression changed.
He did not move.
“Nothing you don't choose.”
Her throat tightened.
“What happens if I tell you I still love you?”
His eyes closed briefly.
When they opened, they were bright.
“I tell you I love you too.”
“And then?”
“Then you go back to New York if that's what you want.”
Claire stared.
“And if I don't know what I want?”
“Then we don't decide tonight.”
She walked toward him slowly.
“Who are you?”
Vincent smiled through emotion.
“Expensive therapy.”
Claire stopped two feet away.
His hands stayed at his sides.
She appreciated that more than she could explain.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
His breathing changed.
“Okay.”
“You're not going to interpret that as reconciliation.”
“No.”
“Or remarriage.”
“No.”
“Or ownership.”
“Claire.”
“What?”
“Please kiss me before you create a contract.”
She laughed.
Then kissed him.
The moment their mouths touched, five years returned.
Not the pain.
The familiarity.
His hand lifted.
Stopped near her waist.
Claire took it and placed it there.
Vincent exhaled.
The kiss deepened.
Then Claire stepped back.
Both were breathing hard.
“That was a mistake.”
Vincent nodded.
“Probably.”
She stared.
“You're supposed to disagree.”
“I would like it to happen again.”
Claire laughed.
She stayed until midnight.
They talked.
Really talked.
About work.
His therapy.
Her loneliness.
Their marriage.
No promises.
At the door, Vincent handed her coat over.
Claire slipped it on.
“I’m flying back tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You mentioned the conference schedule.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Not stalking.”
“Progress.”
She opened the door.
“Vincent?”
“Yes?”
“I'm not ready.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“But I'm not saying never.”
He stopped breathing.
Claire smiled faintly.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Claire.”
She walked away.
Inside the elevator, she pressed her fingers to her lips.
May you like
For the first time, returning to Vincent felt like it might someday be a choice.
Not a surrender.
