I wake up the next morning expecting to find Nico's gangly limbs wrapped around me, a puddle of drool on the pillow where his head rests, but I'm alone. My eyes feel puffy and dry, and my head hurts, which could be the result of drinking on an empty stomach, but I'm sure it's because I sobbed myself to sleep. Before I can drag myself out of bed to get a glass of water and some Advil, Nico bursts through the bedroom door with his hands full.

"Are you alive?"

"No," I mumble. I throw my arm over my face to block out the early morning sun. "Tell my family that I loved them."

"That's too bad, gorgeous, because I have goodies," he announces. He flops onto the bed, causing my already churning stomach to flip, and crosses his long legs at the ankles. "A venti iced caramel macchiato from Starbucks, an almond croissant from Manhattan Mocha, the largest bottle of Smart Water I could find and four extra strength Tylenol."

"Thank you." I sit up as I take the bag and coffee from his hands and kiss him on the cheek. "This is why you're my favorite. You always know exactly what I need."

Hoping a few bites of food will settle my stomach, I pull the croissant from the bag and tear off a piece, but the second the buttery aroma invades my senses, I cover my mouth with the back of my hand and swallow the vomit that's quickly rising in my throat. I drop the croissant in Nico's lap, chuckling to myself when he shrugs his shoulders and eats half the pastry in one bite.

Coffee though, that's my savior – a rescuer I need more often than I'd like to admit – and one of the only things I can keep down when I'm hungover. So, when I wrap my lips around the signature green straw and the creamy, caramel flavor slides down my throat, I can't help but tilt my head back and moan.

"Would you like me to leave so you and your macchiato can be alone?"

"Maybe," I say. "At least my macchiato won't sleep with its assistant."

Nico turns to me, smiling sympathetically, and bumps my shoulder with his. "How're you feeling? And I don't mean from all the bourbon and MSG."

"In a word – awful." I lean my head against his shoulder and sigh. "Why can't you be madly in love with me? It would make my life so much easier."

"I am madly in love with you," he says. He presses his lips against my forehead. "Just not in the way you want me to be."

Unfortunately, he's right. Nico loves me fiercely, but I lack a certain appendage he prefers, so no matter how deeply we love each other, a romantic relationship will never be an option.

Nico came out to his parents when he was in high school, although if you ask him, he was never really in. He never felt the need to sit them down and tell them he's gay. He figured they already knew, but when his mother asked him if he'd officially made Sloan his girlfriend yet, he realized they needed clarification. They were upset at first, and his mother cried, but in the end, they told him they'll always accept him for who he is and love him no matter what. To this day, he still hates the fact that his sexual orientation causes constant concern from his family, but he knows they're just worried about him and the hurt he might endure from the world's close-minded opinions.

They have nothing to worry about though. Nico is the most confidant person I know.

"Thanks for letting me stay here, Nic." I take another sip of coffee, swallowing the four Tylenol with it. "And for last night. I wouldn't have been able to sleep without you, and we both know what I'm like when I don't get enough sleep."

"Oh, I'm aware. I didn't call you Cruella De Vil in college because of that faux fur coat you tried to pass as real," he teases. "But you don't need to thank me, sprout. I always want you here. You can stay as long as you want."

Nico's heart is one of the kindest I've ever known, and I appreciate him more than I'll ever be able to express. I always have. I know if it comes down to it, he'll let me move in, but I'm secretly hoping I'll only be here for a few days.

That ninety percent statistic Nico heard about may be true after all.

"Thanks," I say, avoiding eye contact with him.

"Where's your head at, Del?"

"I don't know. "I try to run my fingers through my hair, but I never brushed it when I got out of the shower last night. So instead of the soft, silky strands I'm used to, my blonde hair is knotty and matted to my head. Between my bloodshot eyes and tangled hair, I don't have to see my reflection to know I look strung out. "I still feel like this is all a bad dream."

"Well, unfortunately, it's not. This is real life. So, as your very best friend, I need to ask..." He wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him and rests his cheek on top of my head. "What are you gonna do?"

"I – um...I talked to my parents yesterday while I was on my way here, and they suggested I go home for a bit. At least until Will and I figure out what's next. Depending on what we decide, I might go. At least for a few days so I can catch my breath."

"Home?"

"Mmhmm."

"To North Carolina?" he asks, pulling away from me.

"Yeah. To North Carolina."

I haven't been home in ten years. Not since...he broke my heart. I've been able to avoid my hometown, and all the memories it holds. I used work as an excuse as to why I couldn't go home for holidays and birthdays, and after a while, my parents stopped asking.

"Well, what can I say?" Nico tilts his head and smirks. "Yeehaw!"

When I told Nico I planned on going to go North Carolina to catch my breath, I meant it, but after a few days I realized I wasn't quite ready to leave New York. Not to mention I hadn't heard from Will since the day he told me he needed space, leaving the fate of our marriage up in the air. Needless to say, I had loose ends that needed to be tied up that I was avoiding like a twenty-four-hour stomach bug. So, I gave myself more time and decided to use it to get my life in order.

As much as I could anyway.

First, I called my parents to let them know I'd decided to take them up on their offer and go home for a few weeks. Although she's heartbroken for me, my mother is thrilled at the idea of having me home. Then, I had to tell Calvin that I was having some personal issues and because of that, I couldn't put my focus on the article, and that it would be in his best interest to give the opportunity to someone else. He was shocked and told me he was disappointed in me, but he appreciated my honesty. He hugged me and said if I need to talk, I can call him. I want to believe he's sincere, but I can't help and take his kindness with a grain of salt, because as he wrapped his arms around me, he grabbed my ass in the process. Something I'm unfortunately numb to at this point.

Will hasn't answered his phone or called me back. I've tried to get in contact with him several times to see if he was ready to talk about us and to let him know I'd decided to go home for a bit, but all my attempts have gone unanswered. So, my only other option besides storming into his office and risk looking like a lunatic was to text him – which I did. He left me on read, but never texted back, and the pieces of my heart time had begun to repair broke all over again.

Even though I declined the urban fashion article, I extended my hours at work to keep myself busy, and when I wasn't at the office, I was at Nico's overdosing on bourbon and take-out. That and catching up on episodes of Love After Lockup are the only ways I've been able to distract myself, but the longer I'm away from Will, the more my anger is beginning to dissipate. I'm still hurt, and I still feel sick every time I close my eyes and see them together, but then I remember the tears in his eyes as he apologized after I found out about their affair. I remember how he told me he wants to stay married, and that he'll do whatever it takes to fix us.

If my marriage is over I need to start considering the process of moving on, but I can't do that until I talk to him. Though it's frustrating to some, I'm the type of person that doesn't give up easily, and I won't be able to move on from us unless I know in my heart I did everything I could to make our marriage work.

"Hey, Selena," I call out to my coworker. "I'm gonna run to the bathroom really quick. If Calvin's looking for me, can you tell him I'll be right back?"

"Sure thing."

As soon as the bathroom door is shut, I turn the lock and pull my phone from the back pocket of my boyfriend jeans.

Wednesday May 19th 10:59 AM

Me: Please stop ignoring me. It's been a week. We need to talk.

Will: You're right. We do.

Me: Can you meet me at Manhattan Mocha on my lunch break? Say, around noon?

I stare at my phone like it's a ticking time bomb, and the longer the conversation bubble blinks on the screen, the higher my anxiety rises.

Will: I can make that work. I'll see you at noon.

I get to Manhattan Mocha a few minutes before twelve o'clock. Will is a stickler for punctuality. He once got mad at me because I got stuck in midtown traffic and I was five minutes late for Sunday dinner at his parents' house. If I don't show up on time to a meeting I requested in the first place, I might as well call an attorney and have divorce papers drawn up now.

I choose a table away from the front door and as soon as I sit down, a waiter comes over to take my order.

"Can I have a regular black coffee and an Americano with a double shot of espresso, please?"

"Coming right up," he says with a kind smile.

"Thank you."

I drop my purse on the floor next to me and place my chin in my hand as I stare out the window. The coffee shop is around the corner from Will's office, and I see him coming before he walks through the door.

I met Will when I was twenty-one and waitressing at Delvecchio's, a small Italian restaurant in Hell's Kitchen. He'd come into the restaurant with his friends after class, and they'd spend most of the night playfully arguing over acquittals and affidavits, and whether OJ Simpson is guilty or not. I would banter back and forth with them every now and then, but I was a junior at NYU at the time, going for my bachelor's degree in journalism, so I didn't have much input when it came to criminal law.

Then, he was just a quiet, baby-faced, law student. His hair was cut short like it is now, but it was tousled in a way that made you wonder if he'd ever picked up a brush – in an irritatingly sexy kind of way – and it was the kind of blonde that made me think he must have been a towhead as a child. The first time I ever saw him, I immediately pictured him running along the beach, sand bucket in hand, hair as white as snow. I'd come to New York freshly single, not at all interested in a relationship, but the second we locked eyes there was something about him that drew me in, and I was hooked.

As he's gotten older his face has thinned, and soft stubble sprinkles his now chiseled jawline. Thanks to me, his fashion sense has increased significantly. There are clothes by designers he's never even heard of hanging in his closet. He's even learned how to style his hair. His warm, brown eyes still crinkle in the corners when he laughs, but years in the courtroom and working late on depositions have dimmed their childlike sparkle. The thing that initially attracted me to him though, and the thing that still makes me weak in the knees, is his smile. It's not because of the adorable dimples that dent his cheeks, or the way the left corner of his mouth lifts slightly higher than the right, or even because he has perfectly straight white teeth worthy of a toothpaste commercial. No, it's because when he smiles at me, I simply forget how to breathe.

"Hey," he says, a soft smile on his face. Though it's only been a week since I've seen him, my heart pounds in a way that makes it feel like it's been years. I watch with bated breath as he unbuttons his navy-blue suit jacket and pulls his phone from the inside pocket. He stares at it for a few seconds – seemingly sending a text – before he places it facedown on the table and sits in the chair across from me. "Sorry. I had to move a few things around to be here, and that was Chels – that was the office letting me know the client agreed to meet later."

"Oh." A cold sweat breaks out along the back of my neck. If Chelsea is texting him about work related matters, does that mean he didn't fire her, and if he didn't fire her, does that mean they're still together? Or did he end their affair but keep her on as his assistant? Would she be okay with that? And am I being unjustly suspicious, or is his phone facedown because he doesn't want me to see what's on it? "Thanks for doing that."

"It's no problem. You're right. We should talk."

The waiter stops at our table with our coffees and places them in front of us. I lean over to pull my wallet from my purse, and when I do, I hear a frustrated sigh come from across the table.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"How many times have I told you not to put your purse on the floor, Delaney? One of these days someone's gonna walk by and pick it up. But maybe that needs to happen for you to learn your lesson."

He's right. He's constantly telling me not to put my purse on the floor, and I always do it anyway. I'm so lucky no one has stolen it yet.

"I'm sorry. I forgot." I quickly grab my purse and set it on the chair next to me. "So, how've you been?"

"Good."

"Yeah? Me too. I've been good...great. I mean, I've been okay," I stutter. I can feel him staring at me, so I pick up my coffee with shaky hands and take a sip. "And how's work? Any new and interesting cases?"

"Delaney."

"Yeah?"

"You don't need to sit here and make small talk with me. We both know why we're here, and what needs to be discussed. So, let's begin."

I wrap my hands around my cup and stare into my coffee, suddenly mesmerized by the golden caramel color. I'm completely taken aback by the cold, robotic tone of his voice. I didn't expect him to fall all over me after what happened, but I certainly didn't expect him to treat me like one of his clients having their first consultation.

"Okay, well, first I want to apologize for the way I spoke to you the other day. I know how much you hate when I curse, and I didn't mean to raise my voice. I was just upset. I also know that I made you feel like you aren't the most important person in my life, and I get that you think we should take some time to figure things out. Strangely enough, I agree with you. I think some distance will help us grow closer – if that makes any sense. But I've had some time to think, and I want you to know how I feel." I roll my shoulders back and sit up straight. "You said you'll do anything to fix this, and so will I. I wanna fix this. I wanna fix us. People make mistakes, and I'm not perfect either. I love you, Will. I just want us to be us again."

He stares at me for a few seconds – his lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowed – before he rests his elbows on the table and places his chin on his folded hands.

"Delaney, I don't..." he begins. "I appreciate you taking responsibility for your part in this, but I've also used the time we've been apart to think, and what I've realized is, this isn't working for me anymore."

"This time apart, you mean?"

"No," he says. "This marriage. When we first started dating, you were my whole world. Everything about you was just...perfect. You checked every single one of my boxes, but you don't anymore. We're all we've known since college and I think the people we've grown into don't belong together. I think there are better people out there for us. People that are gonna challenge us, make us contemplate life and grow. Your not that person for me. Not anymore."

Panic sets in as I feel all the color drain from my face. My heart drops and I exhale a shaky breath as I rest against the back of my chair.

He thinks we're not right for each other anymore? Where did we go so wrong that my husband - the man I vowed to spend the rest of my life with and love more than anything - thinks we're better off with other people?

"You're wrong," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "You're so wrong."

"I'm not. I want someone who wants to be a part of my life."

"But I do want to be part of your life." My eyes sting with tears, but I turn away and stare out the window at the passersby, so he doesn't see them fall. Will hates weakness, and there's no worse form of weakness than tears. "That's all I want."

"It's easy for you to say that now, but what'll happen when things go back to normal? What if I ask you to come to a benefit with me on the same night Nico's fashion line debuts? Or if I wanna have dinner together but Calvin needs you to stay late? Who will you choose?" he asks.

"That's not fair. You know I have no choice but to stay late if Calvin asks me to. It's my job, Will."

"Jobs pay, Delaney. What you have isn't a job. It's a stupid internship. One that hasn't bothered to promote you in four years."

"That doesn't mean it's not important!" I snap. "I also seem to remember all the late nights you had when you started at the firm and before you made partner. I didn't hold that against you. Oh, but I'm sorry, I guess that's allowed when it's an actual job and not a stupid internship."

"Don't be childish, Delaney. I didn't come here to fight with you." I huff a laugh and clench my jaw. Partly because I'm frustrated, the other part because I'm trying really hard not to cry. "I just – I want more for myself. I want a wife who's present. One that'll be there for me. You wanna work for Vogue, right? You're already never around because of your...'job.'" His fingers curl in quotations. "How do you think it's going to be if you ever get a position with an actual magazine?"

"So, you're punishing me for wanting a career? You knew my dreams when we met. Why are they a problem now?"

"They're not a problem. I just don't wanna be your backup anymore. I don't wanna be the guy at functions and galas whose wife is MIA, or the guy who goes to parties alone. I need more in my life. I deserve more."

I blink, causing tears to run down my cheeks, and wipe my jaw with the back of my hand as they begin to drip off my face.

"Then I'll change," I declare in desperation. My voice cracks with emotion. "I don't need to work. I'll quit my internship. Maybe I can use the extra time to do some charity work with your mom. She's always asking me to join her."

"People don't change." He crosses his muscular arms against his chest, pulling the sleeves of his suit jacket tight and smirks. "And no offense, but I don't think you're exactly charity work material, sweetie."

"What about therapy? We could do couples counseling."

"I don't believe in counseling. It's for weak people who'd rather whine about their problems than fix them."

I'm losing him. Every second I can feel him pulling further away from me.

"But –"

"The answer