"So, the prodigal daughter returns from the big city," he says. He turns on his stool to face me and crosses his arms over his broad chest, the muscles in his biceps stretching the sleeves of his t-shirt. "I heard you were in town, but I sure as hell didn't think you'd still be here."

Over the years I've thought about what I'd say, or what I'd do, if I ever ran into Greyson. The St. Louis Cardinals – the major league baseball team Greyson used to be a starting pitcher for – play in New York a couple times a year, but Manhattan is a big city, and I knew the chances of running into him were slim to none. No matter how much time has passed, I knew our first interaction would be difficult. Greyson was someone my heart always felt safe with, even when we were just best friends, but it doesn't feel safe anymore. All I feel is the need to defend myself.

I lift my chin in defiance. "I came to see my family. It's been a while."

"Oh, I know exactly how long it's been since you've seen them. Since your fancy Hamptons wedding in November, right? House in The Hamptons, very pretentious, by the way." I draw my head back in surprise and scoff. "I check in on your parents a couple times a week. Make sure they're okay. Help your dad around the house. Pick up things at the grocery store for your mom. You know, since you're not here to do it."

Okay, I was going to be an adult about this, but now I'm pissed. Who the hell does he think he is? He hasn't seen or spoken to me in ten years. He has no clue what my life is like, or what I've been through. I asked my parents a long time ago not to share the details of my personal life with anyone in South Grove, so I doubt he knows anything about my life in New York. Yet he has the audacity to stand here and judge me?

Fuck. That.

"Alright. Let's not do this." I shove my hands into the pockets of my black, V-neck, shift dress. "We don't even know each other anymore."

"Oh, but I know you. You're Delaney James. The girl who left this town and everyone in it behind for a better, more extravagant life in Manhattan because apparently, we're not good enough for you. You haven't visited since you left for college – not even once. You got married. Some hot shot attorney in some fancy law firm. How's that going?"

My breath catches in my throat, and I step forward as I open my mouth, prepared to tell him everything about Will and his affair and why I'm really home, but I see Jo creep out of the kitchen from the corner of my eye. She doesn't speak but gives a slight shake of her head – so small I barely see it – as if to say, don't give him the satisfaction.

"How've you been? I heard you're working for your dad now."

He turns away from me, grabbing a menu from behind the counter, and snickers. "I've got a great life, Delaney. I'm very fulfilled. Thanks for asking."

"Are you trying to convince me, Greyson, or yourself?"

His cocky smile, the one that used to make my heart skip a beat and my clothes practically melt off my body, leaves his face. He's aged since I last saw him - which was on the cover of Sports Illustrated when he announced his early retirement - but in the way that makes men more attractive and women jealous. The rosy-cheeked, baby-faced teenager that I'd filed away in my memory has matured into a strong, masculine and annoyingly handsome full-fledged man. His vibrant green eyes – the color of mint chocolate chip ice cream – still hold the innocence I remember, but there's life experience behind them now, maybe even a little sadness. His milk chocolate brown hair is shorter than it was in high school. Back then it was wavy and shaggy and fell just below his ears, but now it's cut close on the sides while the top is long and tousled with natural whiskey-colored highlights that I assume are from being out in the sun all day. An impeccably groomed five o'clock shadow decorates his sharp jawline. His full, light red lips – like they're permanently stained from all the cherry Italian ice he ate as a kid – are pressed together and his thick, dark brown eyebrows are furrowed as he frowns at me.

I've always found Greyson attractive, even when we were young, but he's aged well. Better than I could have imagined – and I hate it.

Why couldn't he have gotten fat, or gone bald? That would make keeping my heart from fluttering much easier.

"I don't need to convince you of anything anymore. That's the beauty of you being a thousand miles away. I can be whoever I wanna be and do whatever I wanna do," he says, his voice laced with fake enthusiasm.

When I left for New York, Greyson and I weren't together - we weren't even friends - but after all these years I thought we could at least be cordial. There was a time we loved each other so deeply that we couldn't imagine being apart. That was clearly a very long time ago.

I consider arguing with him, and even try to come up with a snarky comment to put him in his place, but one of us has to be the bigger person and since I'm the one that caused this animosity, I guess it has to be me.

"That's great. I'm glad you're happy. That's all I've ever wanted for you."

"Sure," he mumbles.

I pick my purse up off the floor and drape it over my shoulder. "Bye, Greyson. Please tell your parents I said hello."

I turn to leave without waiting for a response. I want to be as far away from him as possible. I need to be. I have enough reasons to beat myself up over the inauspicious path my life has taken. I don't need Greyson to provide me with more.

"There she goes, ladies and gentlemen. Doing what she does best," he says. I turn around to face him and as I do, I watch him stand from his stool – his large, six-foot-four frame towering over me – and begin to clap. "Leaving."

I feel the energy in the room come to a screeching halt. The soft sounds of conversation and silverware against plates fade as silence suddenly surrounds us, and when I look around, every patron in the diner is watching us. My lips part as I let out a defeated sigh and I feel my chin begin to tremble. I won't let him see me cry though. Tears are a sign of weakness, and I won't be weak in front of Greyson.

As soon as I get behind the wheel of my mother's SUV I burst into tears. I rest the back of my head against the headrest and let myself cry. I don't hold back. I don't try to calm myself down. I don't even try to catch my breath when my entire body shakes with long, racking sobs. I just sit in the car and let my tears roll down my cheeks – one after the other after the other – until there aren't any left.

I know Greyson isn't a fan of mine. I know he would have been satisfied never having seen me again. In fact, I'm pretty sure if we were the last two people on Earth and it was up to us to procreate, he'd let civilization die off, but I never imagined he could be so hostile toward me. Yes, I broke his heart when I went to New York. No, I never reached out to congratulate him when he made it to the major leagues, or to tell him I was sorry to hear he'd retired, or to just check in and say hello. To apologize. After a while, it didn't feel right for me to try and find solace from him.

By the time I pull my mother's car into the driveway I've stopped crying. My upturned, sapphire blue eyes are glassy and bloodshot, and my cheeks are marked with mascara-stained tears. I pull a tissue from the glove compartment and try to clean myself up, but my mother is my mother, and I know the second she sees me she'll know I'm upset.

The Chicago Cubs game is blasting from the television in the kitchen, and when I walk into the room, she's flipping through the mail.

"Hey, Mom."

"Hi, honey. How was lunch?" she asks. She looks up from the Hobby Lobby catalog in her hands and frowns. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine," I lie.

"Oh, really? So that puffy-eyed, racoon look you're sporting is all the rage in New York? You look like that on purpose?"

My purse slides off my shoulder and I let it fall to the floor as I slump onto a kitchen stool.

"I saw Greyson."

"Oh." She drops the mail on the counter and pulls her stool so it's next to mine. "I see."

For as long as I can remember, my mother and I have had a crazy, almost twin-like connection. It's unlike anything I have with anyone else. My father owns his own landscaping company, and from the time I was born, he's worked from sun up to sun down. Adelaide is three years older than me, and she got my father before he owned the company, so my mother overcompensated and raised me like she was a single parent. I can talk to my father about anything, but my mother knows what's wrong before I can put it into words.

"Let me guess, it didn't go well? He was nasty, and belligerent, and doesn't forgive you for the past."

"It was awful," I say, tears in my eyes. I lay my palms flat on the counter, interlacing my fingers, and rest my chin on my hands. "How did you know that's how he'd react?"

"You left, honey. You left and you haven't been back since the day you got on a plane for New York. Neither of you were right in the way you handled the end of your relationship, but what you did really hurt him, and then you completely disappeared."

"Because he told me to!"

"I know that, and he most likely does too, but I don't think he ever really got over what happened between you. I'm here and I saw first-hand how broken he was when he got back from St. Louis. He feels like he's lost everything, including you. So, can you blame him for not handling your return well? For being a little hostile?"

I wish she'd tell me how she really feels about it.

"Jesus, Mom. Whose side are you on?"

She rolls her eyes and presses her thin lips together. "You're twenty-eight years old, Delaney. I'm not gonna coddle you. You had a good reason to leave, but you made a choice that not everyone supports, and you need to deal with the repercussions of that choice."

"But you and Dad were supportive. Adelaide too. Even Jo seems to have forgiven me. Don't you think after all this time he should be over it?"

"First of all, we're your family and we'll always support whatever decision you make. We may not always agree with it, but we'll support it. Second, motherhood has changed Jo. She's been through a lot, and it's matured her. But you were the love of Greyson's life. You two planned a future together and then you changed it. He may never 'get over it'."

"Okay." I sniffle and wipe the tears from my cheeks with my fingertips. "What do I do? I don't want him to hate me anymore."

"There's nothing you can do. At least not right now." She pushes my hair off my forehead and tucks it behind my ear. "He's gone ten years without seeing you, sweetheart. Let it sink in for him and maybe try again in a few days."

I open my mouth to tell my mother there won't be another interaction with Greyson because I'm going back to hiding out in the house like I have been, but a loud knock at the door interrupts me.

"I'll get it," my mother says, kissing me on the temple and heading toward the front door. "It's probably the throw pillow covers I ordered."

I push myself away from the kitchen island and grab a glass from the cabinet. I fill it with water and drink the entire glass down. Apparently, crying hysterically for nearly thirty minutes straight can leave a person dehydrated. I lift the tap to refill my glass but before I can, I hear the slow click of my mother's heeled boots against the hardwood floor. When I turn to face her, she's holding a manila envelope and watching me cautiously.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Delaney, I think..."

I set my glass down – a soft clink echoing around us as it hits the granite countertop – and stare at the envelope in my mother's hands. "What's in your hand, Mom? What is that?"

"I'm - I'm not positive, but I think it's divorce papers. When I opened the door the man said, 'You've been served.' I'm not sure...I mean, he didn't say one way or the other, but it's a big, thick envelope with a return address for New York City. So, it can only mean one thing, right?"

No. No, no, no. There's no way this envelope contains divorce papers. Will would have talked to me before filing. He'd never blindside me like this. He would have asked me how I felt about it before going ahead and making the decision to legally end our marriage. Wouldn't he?

Oh, well hello, denial. Welcome to the party.

Panic rises in my throat as I walk toward my mother. I haven't heard from Will since the day we met at Manhattan Mocha. Not a phone call or a text message. Not even a like on one of my Instagram posts. The last time we spoke he asked me to pack my things so Chelsea could move in. I know it's pathetic, but I hoped he was just caught up in the newness of their relationship and acting on impulse. For a few days after I got home, I actually thought he would call me and tell me he made a mistake and beg me to take him back. That never happened though.

Even though he's been a ghost, I refuse to believe Will filed for divorce without giving me a heads up.

"It's not divorce papers. It can't be. He'd never file without discussing it with me first."

I take the envelope from her hands and tear it open. My fingers tremble as I pull the paperwork from inside, and even though I'm pretty sure I'm not about to pull out a divorce petition, I almost don't want to look.

"Oh God," I whimper. I close my hand over my mouth as I feel another onslaught of tears coming on. I see the words on the papers. I'm reading them with my own eyes, but I don't believe them. "This - this can't be right."

"What's wrong, Del?"

"No. This is wrong. It has to be." I quickly and chaotically flip through the paperwork. "I – I – I don't understand. Why didn't he call me?"

"Delaney, what is it? Talk to me."

Tears spill from my eyes as I shove the papers into the envelope and throw it on the kitchen island, plunging my fingers through my blonde curls. "It's all her fault."

"It's all who's fault?"

"Chelsea! She made him do it. I know she did. He wouldn't have cheated if it weren't for her! If she hadn't...thrown herself at him and made herself his beckon call girl." I press my palm against my forehead. "She should be...ashamed of herself," I speak through choked sobs.

"Honey, I –"

"It's not true. It's not what he really wants," I interrupt. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and tuck my hair behind my ears as I bark out a forced laugh. "She's brainwashed him. She must have. That's the only explanation. Deep down Will doesn't want a divorce, he just...wants to make her happy right now." I press my hand against my chest - feeling the rapid thump of my heart against my palm - and pace the length of our spacious kitchen. "He'll come to his senses."

My mother picks up the envelope and looks at me, her eyes softening as they meet mine. "May I look through the paperwork?"

"Go ahead." I throw my hands in the air. "Have at it."

She studies me for a few seconds, before she picks up the envelope and pulls the papers out. I watch as her brow furrows and she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth in contemplation, until she finally lets out a breath and sets the petition on the countertop.

"He signed all the required places, Del. Each designated line has his signature." She rounds the island and takes my face in her hands. "I'm so sorry, honey, but I think he's serious about this."

"No. I don't believe it," I whisper. My hands tremble at my sides. My heart pounds so hard against my ribcage I'd be surprised if my mother couldn't hear it. I inhale a shaky breath and suddenly, the room begins to spin. "I'm gonna go lie down for a little bit. I don't feel so well."

I stay in my room for the rest of the day. I don't watch television or listen to music. I don't look at my phone. I don't read a book. I don't flip through the latest copy of Vogue or take the Which Gilmore Girls Character Are You? quiz in Cosmopolitan magazine I've been wanting to take. I don't even go downstairs when my father calls me for dinner. I simply lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling fan, watching the blades as they spin around and around, and when I think I might be tired enough to fall asleep, I get under my covers and turn off the light.

But I don't fall asleep. I can't. My heart is broken, and I don't know if it's because there is a man a thousand miles away who once vowed to love me for the rest of his life but walked away from me so easily, or if it's because there's an envelope downstairs that lists all the reasons why he doesn't want to be married to me anymore. An envelope that in a matter of minutes popped the protective bubble of denial I'd been subconsciously floating around in.

I toss and turn most of the night and when I finally succumb to the fact that sleep won't be coming anytime soon, I throw my comforter off me and get out of bed. As I make my way into the kitchen, I notice the manila envelope is still on the counter where my mother left it. I stare at it as I walk by, hoping if I glare at it hard enough it'll burst into flames and turn into ash right here in my parent's kitchen. I reach for a water glass but at the very last second, I grab a tumbler and fill it with whiskey. For what I'm about to do, I'm going to need the hard stuff.

I grab the envelope off the counter, and with alcohol in hand, I sit on the kitchen floor and spread the paperwork out in front of me. He filed for divorce on the grounds of irreconcilable differences. Which I guess isn't technically a lie considering he wanted to sleep with other women, and I wasn't okay with that. It also states that nothing either one of us does can or will repair the marriage. The document is from a law office in Manhattan that I know a close friend of Will's works for. The building is across the street from Nico's apartment, and I've brought Will lunch there on multiple occasions.

The petition is real and legit, and as much as I don't want to admit it, I know that fear was keeping me from accepting it earlier, and that Will filed for this divorce because he wants it, not because Chelsea made him.

I read it from beginning to end, and when I'm finished, I start over again. I do this for almost two hours, and even though his words hurt a little more each time, I can't stop myself. It's like I'm addicted to the pain. My heart breaks at the way his lawyer makes our marriage sound like a simple, insignificant business transaction. We had issues – like every relationship does – but there was nothing insignificant or irretrievably broken about our marriage, and I will always believe we could have got through this had he just chosen to put the work in. Our love wasn't perfect – but it was ours.

I've been more than indecisive when it comes to if and when I'm going back to New York, but for the first time since I made the decision to leave, I can finally admit to myself that besides Nico and Sloan, I have absolutely no reason to go back.

Thanks for reading!