Claimed by My Ex-Husband novel · Chapter 1 of 48
Chapter 1: The Table He Held
At the restaurant where they had their first date, Tala learns her ex-husband withdrew the divorce, drops her ring in his water glass, and breaks her ankle at the curb; he carries her to his car, where her gray cardigan is waiting.
The hostess at Ponte called me Mrs. Alcantara in front of a full lunch crowd, and I let her.
I had signed the divorce papers in March, four days after my husband walked out.
Today was supposed to be the last signature.
That was the only reason I'd come.
The text had arrived at nine that morning, from Noelle, Angelo's chief of staff and the one person from his side who had kept calling me.
"He asked to see you before it's final. He won't say it, but he's been awful. Be kind if you can. I'll be glued to my phone."
I had read it three times and gone anyway.
Ponte was where Angelo took me on our first date, six years ago.
I had ordered the most expensive pasta on the menu because I couldn't think, and then I couldn't eat any of it.
"Right this way," the hostess said. "He's at his table."
"His table?"
"He's held the one by the window every Thursday at one o'clock since he got back." She lowered her voice, the way people do when they think a thing is sad. "Nobody has ever been seated across from him."
"He must love eating alone," I said.
Angelo stood when he saw me.
He was in a charcoal suit, his dark hair cut shorter than I remembered, and he looked rested.
Five months, and he looked rested.
"Tala."
"Angelo."
He came around the table and pulled out my chair himself.
I sat because the whole room was watching a woman in a good dress refuse to sit.
His left hand lay flat on the white tablecloth.
No ring.
No pale line where one had been, either.
I was still wearing mine.
I had put it in a drawer three times since March and taken it back out three times, and I hated that I knew the exact number.
"How are you?" he asked.
"You don't get to ask me that."
"All right." He nodded once, like I'd handed him a ruling. "Then I'll ask something else. Are you eating?"
"Angelo."
"You've lost weight."
"I'm not here to be looked at."
I put my folder on the cloth and slid it across to him.
"My lawyer's office said the last forms need both of us in one room. I've signed mine. Sign yours, and I'll never make you sit across from me again."
He didn't touch the folder.
A waiter came, set down two glasses of water, and left very fast.
"There's nothing to sign," Angelo said. "My lawyer withdrew the petition on Monday."
I heard it.
I didn't understand it.
"Withdrew it."
"The divorce is off the court's calendar. We're still married."
At the next table, a woman put her fork down.
"You can't do that," I said. "I signed. You signed. I watched your lawyer's courier carry it out of my building."
"I signed in March. I took it back on Monday."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not finished."
He said it quietly.
Five months ago he had stood in our kitchen at two in the morning and let me say the worst thing I'd ever said to him.
He hadn't answered a word of it.
He had picked up his passport and left.
Now he wanted to tell me he wasn't finished.
My thumb found the ring on my finger.
It turned easily.
So I took it off.
I held it over his water glass where he could see, and I opened my fingers.
It hit the bottom with a small, clean sound, and a little water jumped over the rim.
"Be finished without me," I said.
I picked up my bag and walked out through the full dining room with every eye on my back.
The hostess opened the door for me and did not look surprised at all.
On the sidewalk my phone buzzed.
Noelle.
"Don't leave yet, hon. He means well. Please. Go back inside."
I stared at it for half a second.
He must have texted her the moment I stood up.
I put the phone away and stepped off the curb to cross to the garage.
My heel caught the edge of a storm grate.
My ankle folded under me with a crack I felt in my teeth, and I went down on one knee in the gutter, my bag spilling at my feet.
The pain went white and then went everywhere.
Footsteps hit the pavement behind me, fast, and then someone was kneeling in the street in a charcoal suit.
"Don't stand on it."
"Get away from me."
"Look at me, Tala. Can you move your toes?"
"I said get away."
His hands were already around my ankle, careful and sure, and I hated that they were warm.
"You're swelling," he said. "That's a break or a bad sprain, and either way you're not walking to a garage."
"Then I'll call a cab."
"Your ring is at the bottom of my glass and I'm not signing anything," Angelo said. "You can be angry at me in my car."
He slid one arm under my knees and the other behind my back and lifted me off the street.
"Put me down."
"Say that again when you can stand."
He carried me to the black car waiting at the curb.
The back door was already open.
Folded on the seat was my gray cardigan, the one I had left in our closet in March.
He had brought it to lunch.
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