Chapter Text
It started with a knock that came too late at night to be casual.
Melissa had been halfway through her second glass of wine, the kind you pour without thinking, just muscle memory after a long day. The Phillies game hummed low on the TV, replaying a win she already knew the ending to. The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed on your ribs.
She knew that knock.
Three sharp taps, one pause, then another, his rhythm.
“Hold on, hold on,” she muttered, setting the glass down with a sigh. When she opened the door, Joe stood there with an envelope in one hand and his car keys in the other.
“Hey,” he said, like it wasn’t strange to show up at your soon to be ex wife’s house at nine thirty on a Tuesday.
“Hey yourself,” she answered, leaning on the doorframe. “You lose your sense of time or somethin’?”
He gave a tired half smile. “Wasn’t sure when I’d catch you home.”
“Where else would I be, Joe? Cabo?”
She stepped aside anyway, motioning him in. He always had that effect on her, irritation mixed with habit.
The divorce papers were already sitting on the coffee table next to the remote. She’d told herself she wouldn’t make a thing out of it. Just sign, done, over. But now, seeing him standing there, uniform shirt half unbuttoned, she could feel old pieces of herself stirring.
“Got the rest of the paperwork,” he said, dropping the envelope beside hers. “Shouldn’t take long.”
“Good. I got Jeopardy! reruns on deck.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the kind that used to melt her on bad days. “Still watchin’ that, huh?”
She poured him a glass before he could decline. Habit again. “What, you think I changed overnight?”
“No. Guess I don’t.”
For a while, the only sound was the rustle of pages and the clink of her wine glass against the table. The air between them had that strange weight of something finished but not yet gone.
“Hard to believe this is it,” Joe said softly.
Melissa didn’t look up. “What’d you expect, a parade?”
He smirked. “Nah. Just thought, I don’t know. Thought we’d make it longer than most.”
That pulled her eyes up. “We did, Joe. We outlasted two of my sisters’ marriages combined.”
He chuckled, then went quiet. His hands flattened the papers, his thumb brushing the edge where her signature would go.
When he looked at her again, there was something searching in his face.
“You ever think maybe we could’ve fixed it?” he asked.
“Don’t start,” she said automatically.
“Melissa”
“Joe, don’t. We’ve done the talks, the fights, the therapy. You think one more heart to heart’s gonna change what we already know?”
He didn’t answer. She hated that. She hated the quiet way he could make her second guess herself.
She pushed the papers toward him. “Sign it.”
He did. Slow, neat, deliberate.
And when it was over, he sat back, like the air had left the room.
She swallowed a sip of wine that burned all the way down. “Congratulations, we’re officially nothin’.”
“That what you think we were?”
She looked at him, really looked. The gray starting to streak his hair, the lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there when they were twenty five. He still smelled faintly like smoke and aftershave and long shifts. And damn it, that smell was still home, even if she didn’t want it to be.
“Don’t,” she said, quieter now.
“What?”
“Make this harder than it is.”
He smiled in that way that wasn’t really happy. “You already poured me wine, Mel. I think we’re past easy.”
They both laughed then, sharp and tired. It felt good, in the worst way.
She sank into the couch, glass in hand. “You remember when we got this couch? You hated the color.”
“Still do.”
“Then why’d you sit down?”
“‘Cause it’s yours.”
Her mouth twitched. “You always were full of crap.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But you loved me anyway.”
The quiet that followed wasn't angry. It was full, of years, of memories, of all the things they never fixed but also never forgot.
On the TV, the crowd at Citizens Bank Park roared as a player rounded third. She glanced at it, then back at him. He was already looking at her.
That look had started plenty of fights and fixed a few, too. It was the look of someone who still knew exactly where she’d be softest.
She tried to look away. She didn’t.
He leaned back a little. “You still got that bottle open?”
She did. Of course she did.
Melissa lifted it, refilled her own glass first, then slid it toward him. Their fingers brushed when he took it. Just a second, but it was enough.
The house felt smaller now. The air thicker.
“You know,” she said, forcing a grin, “Barbara told me I was makin’ good progress on my temper. I think she might’ve jinxed it.”
“Barbara’s still watchin’ your mouth?” he teased.
“She’s watchin’ everything. Don’t get me started.”
He laughed again, and she caught herself smiling before she meant to. That was the thing about Joe, he didn’t have to try hard. He never did.
They sat there, close enough to share silence, far enough to pretend it didn’t mean anything. The Phillies crowd kept cheering through the TV. A breeze pushed through the cracked window, warm and lazy.
When Melissa finally looked over, Joe’s hand was resting on the back of the couch, not quite touching her hair but close enough that she could feel the heat of it.
She didn’t move. Neither did he.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then she set her glass down, turned her head, and met his eyes.
It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t even romantic. It was familiar, inevitable, like gravity.
Her voice came out rough. “You should go soon.”
He nodded, but neither of them moved.
And when she finally leaned back just a little closer, just enough for his shoulder to brush hers, it wasn’t a choice. It was just what came next.
It was supposed to be the last time they saw each other. It wasn’t supposed to change anything. But life, Melissa was learning, had a flair for ironic timing. A month later, after the papers were signed and the split was final, a little pink plus sign delivered the last word. Five years after that unexpected night, Melissa was still watching Jeopardy! reruns. Only now, she was doing it with a five year old sleeping soundly in the next room, the permanent, tiny proof that the ending of one life had been the start of another.