My One and Only by Kristan Higgins Read Free Book Online Page A

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.

    T WENTY-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