He looked toward the house like he missed it. “Please. I wouldn’t ask if I had anywhere else to go.”
That part hit me harder than it should have.
Not because I believed him.
I didn’t.
But Brian was still the father of my children, and I had spent years trying not to become one of those divorced women people whispered about while standing near soccer fields.
Alan rested a hand lightly on my shoulder.
“The garage is separate,” he said gently. “And honestly… it used to be Brian’s space anyway.”
When Brian and I were married, the garage had practically been his second living room. Old couch. Television. Mini fridge. Small bathroom near the laundry room.
