“Listen, you know that I want you to be happy,” she said, still fighting the tightness in her throat. “So whether that’s flying drones and living out of a suitcase or buying a place in a town you want to live in long-term, I don’t need to be part of that equation. I want you to have everything that you want. I’ll survive without you.”

“Will you?” He didn’t say it with a nasty edge. He said it wearily, as if it were a legitimate concern that kept him up at night.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s too early, and I haven’t had enough coffee, and maybe I’m just feeling sorry for myself, so let’s forget I said anything.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Let’s not. Let’s finish it.”

“Fine. I’m your best friend,” he said.

“Yeah. So?”

“I’m your ex-husband.”

“I repeat. So?” she said stubbornly.

He took in a breath and blew it out. “Magpie, I’m your best friend, but that doesn’t mean you’re mine.”

“Um, ouch. Ass.”

“That’s not what I mean. Of course you’re my best friend. But you’re mine by choice. I’m yours by default. I’m all you’ve got. I’ve still got friends back in Seattle and San Francisco. I keep up with them. We see each other when I’m in town. I get kid birthday party invites and Christmas and Hanukkah cards. I send flowers for babies and surgeries.”

“So you’re a social butterfly. What’s your point?”

“You don’t.”

Her tidy little organized world was tilting on its axis.

There was a ruckus in the hall, and she jumped back just in time as Kevin barreled in, a powdered doughnut hanging out of his mouth.

“Get back here, you mangy thief!” Elton—powdered sugar on his chin and shirt—shouted as he gave chase. “Your daddy’s gonna kick my ass if you get a sugar high!”

The dog gleefully plowed into the hall with the doughnut’s owner on his heels.

“I love you, Mags,” Dean said. “I do. But I shouldn’t be your one and only person.”

She stood there sucker punched, tape measure dancing from limp fingers. This hadn’t been in the plans for the day. She hadn’t penciled in a meltdown between opening up a wall and going live to show off the newly gutted kitchen.

But again. She owed him.

“Okay,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Keep thinking about it and let me know what you want to do. We’ll make it work.”

It was his turn to grimace. “Look, I’m sorry. Just forget I said anything. I just need a massage and a gallon of good wine and to stop looking at Will’s Instagram.”