John’s reassurances went a long way in making me feel better. He reminded me over and over again that Abuela loved me. That she wanted me to be happy and I shouldn’t be scared to tell her the truth. But I couldn’t do it. Probably because somewhere in the innermost recesses of my heart, I hoped there might be a future for Simon and me after all.

Once, in late January when winter had finally descended on North Carolina in all its frigid glory, I bundled up in my wool coat and turquoise scarf and left my office for the gardens. I wound my way back to the rose garden, a place I’d been avoiding for weeks. I stood in the corner, hidden behind the leafless branches of my favorite tree, and stared at Simon’s house. It was late afternoon, so he probably wasn’t home. But I wished he were. Time had dulled and dissipated my anger. All that was left was longing.

I realized with a keen sense of regret that I missed him more than I had ever missed Jamie.

It became a frequent walk for me. Once, maybe twice a week. At first I timed my outings so I knew he wouldn’t be home. But then, as time passed, I started walking later in the afternoon, closer to dinnertime, when he might be arriving home from work. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to him. I had no idea what I would say. But I did want to see him.

It was the end of March, on a Tuesday afternoon. I’d just finished a long meeting with a wedding planner who had very specific requests for the reception space, and my brain was done. I’d grown to appreciate the benefits of taking a walk through the gardens to clear my head, which was my very specific goal that afternoon. For once, I hadn’t even given Simon a thought.

Until I hit the corner of the rose garden that offered a vantage point of his porch and saw him standing there in front of his door. He wore a suit and an overcoat and held a stack of what looked like letters in his hand. His mail, probably. He sorted through them, his face passive. It was such an ordinary thing to be doing. Looking through his mail. But it made my breath catch anyway. My reaction was visceral—felt all the way in my bones. The detached peace I’d cultivated and enjoyed the past few months evaporated in a moment, replaced with a longing so intense I nearly fell to my knees. I needed him. Wanted him. Loved him.