I changed my dress three times before Miguel arrived. The blue one made me look pale. The black one reminded me too much of the formal dinners I used to have with Alex, sitting across from each other in silence. I finally settled on a simple green dress that Mrs. Martinez had given me. It was nothing fancy, just cotton with small flowers, the kind of dress I would have chosen for myself before I became Mrs. Reed.
When Miguel knocked on my door at seven, my hands were shaking slightly as I reached for the handle.
He stood there holding a small bunch of wildflowers, the kind you might pick from a roadside. They were nothing like the expensive arrangements Alex used to have delivered to the house for special occasions. These flowers looked like Miguel had chosen each one himself.
"These are beautiful," I said, taking them.
"I picked them on my walk here. I know they are not much, but they reminded me of your paintings."
"My paintings?"
"Mrs. Martinez showed me the one you left drying by the window yesterday. The landscape with the wildflowers. These looked just like the ones you painted."
I became sweaty. I had forgotten about that painting, the one I had worked on during my lunch break and left to dry in the common area. "You saw that?"
"I hope you do not mind. It was really good, Emily. You have talent."
No one had looked at my art in years. Alex had never even noticed the paintings I used to leave around the house, hoping he might comment or ask about them.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
Miguel had borrowed Mrs. Martinez's old car for the evening. It was nothing like Alex's sleek vehicles, just a simple sedan with a few dents and a radio that played soft music. As we drove through the city, Miguel pointed out little details I had never noticed before.
"See that building there? The way the evening light hits those windows? I have been wanting to paint that for months."
"Why have you not?"
"I guess I have been waiting for the right moment. Sometimes I think too much instead of just doing."
I understood that feeling. I had spent three years thinking about all the things I wanted to say to Alex, all the conversations I wanted to have, and all the ways I wanted to fix our marriage. I had thought and planned and hoped while my life passed by.
The restaurant Miguel chose was small and warm. Nothing fancy, just checkered tablecloths and the smell of home cooking. The hostess greeted Miguel by name and showed us to a corner table.
"Do you come here often?" I asked.
"Every Friday for the past two years. Maria makes the best chicken parmesan in the city." He smiled. "I am not much of a cook myself."
We ordered, and as we waited for our food, Miguel asked me about my work at the gallery. I found myself talking more than I had in months, telling him about the artists whose work we displayed, about Sarah's plans for expansion, and about my ideas for the local art show.
"You light up when you talk about it," Miguel said, watching my face.
"I feel like myself there. Does that make sense?"
"Perfect sense. That is how I feel when I paint. Like I am exactly where I am supposed to be."
Our food arrived, and Miguel was right about the chicken parmesan. It was simple and delicious. We talked about everything and nothing. He told me about growing up in the city, about working different jobs to pay for art supplies, and about his dream of having his own show someday.
"What about your family?" I asked.
His face changed slightly, becoming more guarded. "It is complicated."
"I understand complicated."
He was quiet for a moment, pushing pasta around on his plate. "I have a brother. Older brother. We used to be close, but we had a falling out a few years ago."
"What happened?"
"Business disagreements. He wanted to do things one way; I wanted to do them another. He chose money and success. I chose to walk away." Miguel looked up at me. "We have not spoken since."
There was pain in his voice, the kind that comes from losing someone you love. I wanted to ask more, to understand what could drive brothers apart, but there was something in his expression that told me the subject was closed.
"I am sorry," I said.
"It is in the past. What about you? Do you have family?"
"My parents live in Ohio. We were close once; they loved me before I got married. They never really liked Alex; they thought he was too cold, too focused on business. I paused. "I should probably call them soon. Let them know I am okay."
"They were worried about you?"
"They will be when they find out I left. I have not told them yet."
Miguel reached across the table and covered my hand with his. His skin was warm and lovely, unlike my so-called husband's hand.
"It is hard to admit when something we wanted so badly did not work out," he said gently.
"I thought love would be enough. I thought if I loved him hard enough, long enough, he would eventually love me back."
"Love should not be that hard, Emily. When it is real, it flows both ways."
His words hit something deep inside me. Alex had never made me feel like love flowed both ways. I had poured everything into our marriage and received nothing back.
"How do you know when it is real?" I asked.
Miguel's thumb traced small circles on my hand. "When being with someone feels like coming home. When you can be completely yourself and they see you, really see you, and like what they see."
I looked into it, and I felt something I had never felt with Alex. I felt seen. Not as Alexander Reed's wife, not as a role I was playing, just as Emily.
"Miguel," I said softly.
"Yes?"
"This feels different. You feel different."
"Different from your husband?"
I nodded. "Different from everything."
We finished dinner as the restaurant began to empty. Miguel insisted on paying, even though I offered to split the check. As we walked back to his car, he took my hand naturally, and I did not pull away.
"Would you like to see something?" he asked.
"What?"
"A place I go when I need to think. It is not far."
I nodded, and he drove us to a small park overlooking the river. The city lights reflected on the water, and couples walked along the path holding hands. Miguel led me to a bench facing the water.
"I come here when I am working on a difficult painting," he said. "Something about the light, the way it changes on the water, helps me see things differently."
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the lights dance on the river. I felt peaceful in a way I had not felt in years. No pressure to be anything other than myself, no tension waiting for criticism or coldness.
"Emily," Miguel said quietly.
"Yes?"
"I know you are still technically married. I know you are healing from something painful. I do not want to rush you or make things complicated."
My heart started beating faster.
"What I am trying to say is, I like you. I like spending time with you. I like the way you see beauty in art and the way you light up when you talk about things you care about. I like your laugh and your kindness and the way you make me want to be a better man."
I turned to look at him, and he was studying my face carefully.
"I would like to take you out again, if you want. No pressure, no expectations. Just spending time together, getting to know each other better."
"Miguel, I am not sure I am ready for anything serious. I am still figuring out who I am outside of my marriage."
"I know. I am not asking you to be ready for anything serious. I am just asking you to be open to the possibility that good things can happen, even after bad things."
I thought about Alex, about the cold house and the empty conversations and the years of feeling invisible. Then I looked at Miguel, at his honest face and gentle eyes, at this man who picked wildflowers and saw beauty in ordinary moments.
"I would like that," I said.
His smile was radiant. "Really?"
"Really."
He leaned closer, and for a moment I thought he might kiss me. Instead, he brushed a strand of hair away from my face, his fingers gentle against my cheek.
"Thank you for tonight, Emily. For letting me take you to dinner, for sharing your story with me. You are remarkable."
No one had ever called me remarkable before.
As he drove me back to the motel, I felt something unfamiliar blooming in my chest. Not the desperate, clinging love I had felt for Alex; there was something quieter. Something that felt like a possibility.I kept blushing throughout.
When we reached my room, Miguel walked me to the door.
"Good night, Emily."
"Good night."
He started to walk away, then turned back.
"Emily? That painting of yours, the wildflowers? You should enter it in the art show. It deserves to be seen."
I lay in bed thinking about dinner, about Miguel's laugh, and about the way he had looked at me across the table. I thought about his paintings and his gentle hands and the way he made me feel like I was worth knowing.
For the first time in my adult life, I was getting to know someone who wanted to know me back.
It felt like the beginning of something beautiful.