My One and Only. Kristan Higgins

speaking of scabs and memories…

      Very slowly, I opened the top drawer of my desk, took out a little key from where it was taped to the back and unlocked the bottom drawer of the file cabinet to my left.

      Last year, on my thirty-third birthday, I’d hired our firm’s private investigator for personal reasons. Half a day later, Dirk had given me this envelope.

      Just looking at it made me feel a little sick. But I wasn’t a weenie, either, so I opened it, just a little, and glanced inside. Town, state, place of employment, place of residence. As if I needed to see the words. As if they weren’t already branded on my temporal lobe.

      I hesitated, then dropped the envelope back in the drawer. “I have other stuff going on,” I told it. “You’re not a priority. Sorry.” I closed the drawer, locked it, replaced the key.

      Then I gathered up my stuff, went into the waiting room, waved to Tommy and told him to keep his chin up—he’d get through this, they all did—and reminded Carol that cell service might well suck out there in Big Sky country and not to panic if she didn’t hear from me.

      “Have I ever panicked, not hearing from you? Have I, in fact, ever gone twenty minutes without hearing from you?” she said, scowling at me. “Take a damn vacation, Harper. Give us all a break.”

      “Aw. Does that mean you want some moose antlers as your souvenir?”

      “That would be nice.”

      I tapped the bobblehead figure of Dustin Pedroia on her desk. “Hope the Sox win tonight,” I said.

      “Did you see Pedey last night? Unbelievable,” she said, sighing orgasmically.

      “I know,” I said, having watched the rerun somewhere around 2:00 a.m. as I battled insomnia. “He’s so good now…just wait till he hits puberty.”

      Carol’s dreamy expression turned murderous. “Get out.”

      “Bye, then,” I smiled.

      But just before I left, I went back and got that envelope from the bottom drawer, stuck it in my bag and tried not to think of it.

      Out on the street, I took a deep breath. School was back in session, and most of the tourists were gone, though they’d be flooding in like the red tide on Friday. Glancing down the street at the Catholic church, I decided to pop in on Father Bruce before herding Dennis into readiness.

      The church was quiet. Ah. A sign. The Sacrament of Reconciliation is held Thursday afternoons from 5:00 till 7:00 p.m. The little door of the confessional booth was open. I went in. Sure enough, Father Bruce was seated on the other side, apparently dozing.

      “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I said. Always envied my Catholic friends for this little rite.

      Father Bruce jerked awake. “How long has it been since—oh, Harper, it’s you. Very funny.”

      “How are you?”

      “I’m fine, dear. But this time is reserved for those seeking the sacrament of reconciliation.”

      “They’re not exactly lining up around the block, Father.”

      He sighed. “You have a point. Can I do something for you, dear?”

      “No, not really. I’ve just always wondered what you do in here.”

      “I knit.”

      “I figured.”

      We sat there in silence for a minute. One thing about churches—they all smelled nice. All those candles, all that forgiveness.

      “Is there something on your mind, my dear?” Father Bruce asked. I didn’t answer. “As your confessor, I’m bound by the same confidentiality you give your clients,” he added.

      I looked at my hands. “Well, sure, in that case, yes, something’s on my mind. I’m about to see my ex-husband after twelve years.”

      As Kim had done when she heard this news, Father Bruce sputtered. “You were married?”

      “Briefly.”

      “Go on.”

      I shrugged. “It just didn’t work out. We were too young and immature, same old story, yawn. Now my sister’s marrying his brother. My stepsister, his half brother. Whatever.” Suddenly uncomfortable, I sat up. “Well, I should go. I have to pick up Dennis.”

      “Does Dennis know?”

      “Know what? That I was married? Sure. I told him last week.”

      “And this was the first conversation you had on that topic?”

      “It’s not really a topic. It’s more of a fact. Sort of like, ‘I had my tonsils out when I was nine, I got married a month after I graduated college, we were divorced before our first anniversary.’”

      “And have you seen your husband since?”

      “Ex-husband. Nope.”

      “How telling.”

      “You priests. Armchair psychologists, the whole lot of you.”

      “You’re the one sitting in a confessional booth, seeking my wisdom under the guise of curiosity.”

      I smiled. “Okay, you win this round. Sorry I can’t stick around so you can gloat, but I do have to go. Ferry leaves in an hour.” But I didn’t move.

      Since my sister had called, there’d been a thrum of electricity running through me. Not a pleasant thrum, either. Sort of a sick feeling, as if I lived too near power lines and was about to be diagnosed with a horrible disease. As if opposing counsel just dropped a little bombshell about a secret bank account and a mistress in Vegas. For twelve years, memories of my marriage had been locked in a safe at the bottom of some murky lake of my soul. Now, through some whim of fate and through no desire or action of my own, I was going to see Nick Lowery once more.

      “Here.” Father Bruce pulled something from his back pocket and then opened his side of the booth. I stood as well and opened mine, joining him in the church proper. “It’s my card. My cell number’s on it. Give me a ring, let me know how things are going.”

      “I’ll be back on Monday,” I said. “I’ll buy you a drink instead.”

      He winked. “Call me. Have fun. Tell your sister hello for me.”

      “Will do.” I gave his shoulder a gentle punch and left, my heels tapping on the tile floor.

      TWENTY-TWO HOURS LATER, I was ready to strangle Dennis with Coco’s leash and leave his body for the vultures or bald eagles or hyenas or whatever the hell else lived up here.

      Yes, yes, I’d originally wanted him to come with me. One doesn’t face an ex-husband alone when one has a brawny firefighter boyfriend who looks like the love child of Gerard Butler and Jake Gyllenhaal. But the “and guest” idea had played out better in my imagination than in reality. Also, the thought kept popping up that this would’ve felt much better if Dennis been my fiancé instead of boyfriend, but that subject had not been broached since the night of the fateful phone call. Plus, I was about to murder him.

      Let me explain. We’d been bickering since the moment I found him guzzling a beer and watching a rerun of the 2004 World Series instead of standing at the door with bag packed, as I’d requested. Granted, things had been a little off since my marriage proposal—and by off, I mean we hadn’t done it since then, which was causing all kinds of issues. But just because I was unsettled about Willa getting married didn’t mean I’d forgotten that Dennis had not exactly been thrilled with the thought of marrying me. Which meant, of course, that he wasn’t getting any. But we were still together, and when I asked if he’d come with me to Montana, he said yes. Eventually.

      Unfortunately, Dennis, who was prone to back trouble, conveniently suffered a back spasm just before we left his grubby little apartment, which required me