The Ex-Husband's Grand Return

Six years since the divorce, I thought Gianna Eurich had already faded completely out of my life. That afternoon, the sunlight was especially bright, and I was holding the picture book my daughter, Eva, wanted. She said this morning, "Dad's going to buy me a mango cake just like the one in the picture book." When we got to the cake shop on the corner, the clerk smiled and greeted us. I pointed to the top shelf of the glass display case: "Could I get two pieces of mango mousse cake, the ones with the little cherries on top?" That was the cake Eva had specifically asked for yesterday. Just as I pulled up the payment code on my phone, a hand suddenly reached over the counter. The hand was painted with dusty rose nail polish, the edges of the nails rimmed with tiny rhinestones, and a beige designer bag hung from the wrist. "Let me pay, Simon." Gianna's voice drifted over from beside me, with a deliberately soft tone. "You're a professor now — it's a respectable title, but it's not exactly lucrative. Let me get this." I paused for a moment, then looked up and finally saw her clearly. She had big, wavy curls permed, the ends dyed light brown, a bit heavier than six years ago, and Everything about her screamed, "Look how well I'm doing!" "No need," I pushed my phone back toward the register, trying to keep my voice calm. "Let's just pay separately. Don't need to make things complicated." But she reached out and pressed the back of my hand, while her other hand already scanned the payment code: "Why be so formal with me? You used to buy me strawberry cake all the time, now I'm treating you to mango—consider it me returning the favor." Right after the payment beeped, she grabbed the cake bag from the clerk and smiled: "Your birthday's on the fifteenth next month, right? I remember you used to love mango the most—think of these two pieces as an early celebration." I didn't reply; my eyes landed on the jade bracelet on her wrist. The color was flawless, obviously something valuable. Glancing down again at my black coat, the cuffs were all pilled—it was the one Trista bought me three years ago. Back then, she said, "It's dirt-proof and comfy, just right for your classes." "You've had this coat for years, haven't you?" She quickly zeroed in on my clothes, a hint of pity flashing in her eyes. "Been tight on cash lately? If it's rent or you're thinking about switching jobs, just say the word. I can pull some strings for you." "No need," I took the cake bag from her, stepped back to keep my distance, "I'm heading to pick up Eva from kindergarten—gotta run." "Eva? Is that your... kid?" She froze for a moment, surprise in her voice, still wanting to press for more. I didn't say a word, just turned and headed for the door. Her voice came from behind me: "Simon, mind if I add you on Instagram? It'll be easier to stay in touch!" I didn't look back, pushed the glass door open, and stepped out of the shop.