That evening cleaved Lucy’s life into a stark “before and after.”
“You get it, Luce, yeah? Met someone else. We just… fit. Spark, y’know? Not like us—once in a blue moon, and even then it’s like a chore,” Jamie admitted, twisting off his wedding ring with a shrug. He delivered it with a smirk, as if the fault were hers alone. Lucy listened, silent. No pleas, no tears, no clinging. Just release.
“We won’t split anything. Flat’s mine—bought it before we married. Car too. And I’m keeping Max. Even if we got him together, he’s mine.” Her voice was steady, later.
“Couldn’t care less about the mutt. Keep him. But the car and flat? I’d’ve taken half.”
“Would’ve mattered if you’d paid for them,” Lucy cut in. “But you didn’t. So tough luck.”
Jamie spluttered, but in the end, he left. She stayed—with Max, her revenge simmering.
The betrayal ate at her. “Doubt I’ll trust anyone again,” she confessed to her friend Emma over wine.
“Can’t believe you let him waltz out like that. Should’ve taught him a lesson.”
“How?”
“String him along, then drop him. Poetic.”
Lucy shrugged. “Revenge is a dish best served cold. Wait. He’ll crawl back.”
“Why?”
“Seven years together, and this—this *Chloe*? Some gym fling. Fifteen years younger. He’ll regret it.”
And he did.
Three months later, Jamie reappeared. “You home? Passing by. Need to pop in.”
“Why?”
“Left my favourite umbrella. Autumn’s here. Need it.”
“Fine. Take it.” She indulged him, letting him rifle through cupboards for forgotten scraps. Watched him flounder, inventing reasons to stay.
When nothing remained, he conjured another: “Luce, I’m coming over. Wait up.”
“Forgot something *else*?” She bit back a grin. Just as Emma predicted.
“Missed Max. Bet he misses me too.”
“Max? Miss *you*? Dogs—and women—don’t wait for traitors.”
“Still coming. Chloe’s bolted the door—some key I don’t have. Fitness retreat. Need a place till tomorrow.”
“Try a hotel.”
“But… dinner? Please?”
“Fine,” she relented.
He arrived, inhaling her cooking. “God, this mushroom pie. I’d sell my soul for it! Chloe’s meals are… bland. Always dieting. Asked for chips once—she *screamed*. Called me fat.”
Lucy laughed. He looked pathetic. Those “passionate” months had hollowed him, adding a decade to his face.
“Eat. You’ve lost weight,” she said, slicing a thick piece of meat for Max. Jamie eyed it, realising the dog ate better than he did.
“Time to go,” Lucy said as he lounged before the telly, slipping into old habits.
“Give us a break! Best night I’ve had in ages. Proper cosy.”
“I’ve got plans. Sorry.”
“What plans?” He squinted. His loyal Lucy—playing the field?
“A date.” She savored his shock.
“Who with?”
“None of your business. Clear out. We’ll need the sofa.”
Jamie’s face fell. He’d hoped for nostalgia—her warmth, the works. Instead, he slunk out, muttering, “Liar. No one’s coming.”
“Why’s that?”
“A real man would’ve fixed that dripping tap. Yours is still broken.”
“My men come for pleasure, not plumbing. Fix Chloe’s taps. Oh wait—that tap’s been leaking since *you* lived here. Never lifted a finger.”
“Not my skill. But I’ve got *other* talents.”
“Pale in comparison,” she said, slamming the door. Through the peephole, she watched him shuffle off, grinning.
Days later, he called. “Miss you. Seven years—habit, I guess.”
At first, his complaints about Chloe amused her. But now? Exhausting. Even hatred had faded.
“How do I shake him off?” she asked Emma.
“Strike now. It’s time.”
“Honestly? He’s suffering enough. Miserable with Chloe, and I won’t take him back just to dump him.”
“Then ghost him. Block his number, change the locks.”
She tried. It backfired. Jamie’s inner bulldog emerged—calls from unknown numbers, flowers at her office, lurking outside her building.
“Jamie, stop. I’ve moved on,” she pleaded, stunned. Six months ago, she’d never have believed it.
Now, she walked Max across town to avoid him. The stalking escalated.
“Stay with me,” Emma offered.
“But the flat?”
“Rent it out. My coworker’s looking—a month, tops. Perfectionist type. Always screws taps shut, resets microwaves.”
They laughed, but Lucy finally called a plumber. No risking the tenant.
When the doorbell rang, she jolted—fearing Jamie. Instead, a stranger stood there.
“Hello. Plumbing job?”
“Come in.”
Michael was young, skilled, and easy on the eyes. The tap was fixed in minutes.
“Mind checking the bathroom? And the shelf’s loose…”
Two hours later, her flat was pristine.
“You’re a gem,” she said, paying him. Then—the doorbell. Jamie, like a bloodhound.
“Don’t worry. The uniform’ll keep him from getting ideas,” Michael joked.
Lucy blushed. “Actually, I need him to *get* the wrong idea.”
Jamie’s knocks grew frantic.
“My ex. Can’t shake him,” she admitted.
“Ah. Seen it all. Need an extra hand?” He winked, shrugging on his jacket.
She let him out, locked up. Jamie loitered, spotting the handsome stranger leaving.
*Gotcha.*
“Bad news—my coworker found a place,” Emma said later.
“No matter. Couldn’t have moved Max anyway—your son’s allergies.”
“Right. Plan B, then.”
“I’ve got one. Handsome bloke. Shelf collapsed today—excuse to call him back.”
Emma demanded details, but Lucy promised to spill later.
Michael wasn’t surprised by her call.
“Be there tonight. Wait up.”
He arrived—no uniform, just jeans, a tee, and… flowers.
“What’s this for?”
“You. For your soul, not your sink.”
“Thanks. Here’s borscht. Return favor?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
They chatted until Jamie called again.
“Lucy! Where’ve you been?”
“Busy. Personal life.”
“What life? Work and telly! Drop the act. I’m coming over—need the old curtains. Rented a place nearby. Empty. Thought you’d help… Unless—”
“Can’t. Have company. Feeding him borscht.”
Silence. Then Michael played along: “Let him come.”
Jamie heard. “I’ll be there.”
Lucy slumped. “Help me.”
“Course. Need a fake boyfriend?”
“Please.”
“Borscht’ll cover it.”
Michael was a natural. When Jamie barged in, he found Lucy laughing, Michael dusted with flour.
“Jamie! We’re making pierogi. Mushroom and potato.”
“Who’s *this*?” Jamie eyed Michael.
“Michael. Fiancé. You must be the ex. The pest.” He rolled up sleeves, flexing.
“I— You’re lying. Who’d want her? She’s—”
“Clearly, you do. Buzz off, or I’ll *adjust* your plumbing.”
“Curtains are by the door. Last favor. Take them. Go,” Lucy said.
Jamie faltered. “Fine. Happy life.”
He left.
Michael stayed. They made pierogi—mushroom and potato.
“Do you often rescue women from exes?” she asked later.
“Yours was a first. Usually, they flirt. I decline.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Take pierogi. As thanks.”
“Rather eat them here. If that’s alright.”
“More than alright,” she said, smiling. Max wagged his tail.
“See you soon.”
“Bye.” She watched him leave, warmth blooming inside. First time since the divorce.
Every ending’s a new beginning. Who knows?
