11. Griffin
— ? —
Griffin
The applause is deafening.
A whole ballroom on its feet, clapping and cheering, and all I can think is where the fuck is Hannah?
I scan the crowd while Julie waves and blows kisses beside me. I search for that red dress, that dark hair, that face I’ve been waking up next to for five years. She was here. I saw her when I took the stage. She was sitting near the back, watching me with that expression I couldn’t quite read.
Now her seat is empty.
Julie squeezes my arm. “Griffin, smile. People are taking photos.”
I smile. I shake hands. I accept congratulations from people whose names I can’t remember right now because my wife just disappeared and I don’t know why.
The crowd swarms me the moment I step off the stage. Investors wanting to talk numbers. Employees wanting to be seen with the boss. Richard Myer pulling me into a bear hug and telling me I’ve got a bright future, son, a real bright future.
“Great speech,” Richard says, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. “Really knocked it out of the park. Julie was so touched by your words. Weren’t you, sweetheart?”
Julie appears at her father’s elbow, beaming. “It was beautiful, Griffin. I had no idea you felt that way about our partnership.”
I want to tell her to fuck off. I want to tell both of them to fuck off. But I can’t, because that’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.
“Thank you,” I say instead. “I really appreciate your support.”
I keep scanning the room while I talk. Where is she? Where the hell is she?
Someone hands me a glass of champagne. Someone else wants to talk about expansion opportunities in the Southeast. A photographer asks me to pose with Richard and Julie for a few shots. I do it all on autopilot, my eyes never stopping their search.
“You looking for someone?” Richard asks, following my gaze.
“My wife. Have you seen her?”
“Hannah?” He frowns, like he’s trying to remember what she looks like. “Can’t say I have. Julie, have you seen Griffin’s wife?”
“Not since the speech started,” Julie says, and there’s a note in her voice, a hint of satisfaction, maybe, that makes my stomach turn. “I’m sure she’s around somewhere. Probably just powdering her nose.”
For twenty minutes? During my speech?
I excuse myself as politely as I can and push through the crowd toward the exit. People keep stopping me, wanting to shake my hand, wanting a photo, wanting five minutes of my time to pitch some idea they’ve been sitting on. I brush them all off, my patience wearing thinner with every second.
“Great job up there,” someone says.
“Thanks.”
“The product looks amazing. You must be so proud.”
“Thanks.”
“Is it true you’re thinking about…”
“Sorry, I have to go.”
I finally break free of the crowd and find one of our junior employees near the door. Young woman, maybe twenty-three, looking nervous at being addressed directly by the CEO.
“Have you seen my wife?” I ask. “Hannah? Dark hair, red dress?”
She shifts uncomfortably. “I think… I think I saw her leave? Maybe twenty minutes ago? She looked…” She trails off.
“She looked what?”
“Upset. She looked upset. I’m sorry, Mr. Bloom.”
Upset. My wife looked upset and left in the middle of my speech and now she’s not answering her phone.
Fuck.
“Thank you,” I say, already moving toward the exit.
Julie intercepts me near the door.
“Griffin, where are you going? The party’s just getting started. Daddy wants to introduce you to some people from the Tokyo office.”
“Hannah left. I need to find her.”
“I’m sure she’s fine.” Julie waves a dismissive hand. “Probably just tired. You know how she gets at these things. All that standing around, making small talk. It’s not really her scene, is it?”
I stare at Julie. There’s a look on her face, satisfaction, triumph, the look of someone who’s gotten exactly what she wanted.
“What did you say to her?”
“Me?” Her eyes go wide, innocent. “Nothing. We barely spoke.”
She’s lying. I can tell she’s lying, but I don’t have time to deal with it right now. I don’t have time for any of this.
“I have to go.”
I push past her and out into the night.
The valet brings my car around. I tip him too much because my hands are shaking and I can’t count properly. I try Hannah’s phone as soon as I’m behind the wheel.
It rings once, twice, three times, then: Hey, this is Hannah. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.
Her voice sounds so normal. So calm. So completely unlike whatever’s happening right now.
“Hannah, it’s me. Please call me back. I don’t know what happened but I’m worried about you. I’m on my way home. Just… please. Call me.”
I pull out of the parking garage and onto the street. I try her phone again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
The drive home takes forever. Every red light feels like an eternity. Every slow driver in front of me is a personal insult. I keep checking my phone, hoping to see her name light up the screen.
Nothing.
I call again. And again. And again.
Her recorded voice each time, bright and unbothered, a Hannah from some other timeline.
“Hannah, please. I’m really worried now. Whatever happened, whatever I did, I’m sorry. Just call me back and let me know you’re okay.”
The house is dark when I pull into the driveway.
That’s wrong. Hannah always leaves the porch light on. She says it makes the house look welcoming, makes it feel like someone’s waiting for you to come home. It’s one of those little things she does, one of a thousand I never really noticed until right now, when it’s not there.
Tonight, everything is dark.
I let myself in and the silence hits me immediately. It’s not the normal silence of an empty house, where someone’s just in another room, or asleep upstairs, or taking a bath. This silence is different. It’s the silence of absence, of abandonment.
“Hannah?”
Nothing.
“Hannah, are you here?”
I move through the rooms, turning on lights as I go.
The living room is empty, the throw pillows still arranged perfectly on the couch, just how she likes them.
The dining room is empty, the table set with the placemats we never use, the ones her mother gave us for our wedding.
The den is empty. My golf clubs are still in the corner where I left them three weeks ago, the day I canceled our weekend getaway because something came up at work.
The kitchen…
I stop.
There’s something on the island. A piece of paper and something small and shiny next to it.
I walk closer. My feet feel heavy, like I’m moving through water. Everything is slow and strange and wrong.
The paper is folded once. My name is written on the outside in Hannah’s neat handwriting. The same handwriting I’ve seen on a thousand contracts, a thousand memos, a thousand documents that built our company.
I pick it up.
Goodbye, Griffin.
I want a divorce.
The floor drops out from under me.
I read the words again. And again. And again, waiting for them to change, waiting for them to say something different, waiting for them to make sense.
They don’t make sense. None of this makes sense.
I look at the shiny thing next to the note. Her wedding ring. The diamond I saved for six months to buy, back when six months of savings barely covered a half-carat stone. The one I proposed with on that rooftop while she cried happy tears and said yes, yes, yes.
It’s just sitting there on the counter. Like it doesn’t mean anything anymore.
“No.” The word comes out rough, broken. “No, no, no, no, no.”
I grab my phone and call her again. Voicemail.
“Hannah, I got your note. Please, just talk to me. Whatever’s wrong, whatever happened, we can fix it. Just call me back. Please.”
I call again. And again. And again.
Voicemail every time.
I try her parents’ house. The landline rings and rings and rings. Nobody picks up.
I text her: Hannah please. I don’t understand. What happened? Why are you doing this?
No response.
I text again: I love you. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please just talk to me.
Nothing.
I sink onto the kitchen floor, my back against the island, my legs stretched out in front of me. I’m still holding her note in one hand and my phone in the other.
How did we get here?
Yesterday morning I woke up next to her and everything was fine.
We had breakfast together. She told me about some vendor issue she’d handled, some problem she’d solved before it became my problem.
I kissed her hair and told her I couldn’t wait to see her in that dress tonight.
Everything was normal. Everything was fine.
Then the party. Then a locked guest-room door I didn’t understand. Then this morning, her coming back from God-knows-where at 8 a.m. looking like a ghost, telling me she needed time alone, standing stiff in my arms while I said I loved her. Then the launch. Then this.
And now she’s gone and she wants a divorce and I don’t even know why.
I think about the party. The speech. Julie on stage beside me, waving at the crowd.
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.
I was supposed to thank Hannah. I was going to thank Hannah. I had the whole thing planned in my head, how I’d call her up to the stage, how I’d tell everyone that none of this would exist without her, how I’d finally give her the recognition she deserved.
But then Julie cornered me right before I went on. Told me her father was having second thoughts about the partnership. Said things could get “complicated” if I didn’t acknowledge her contribution publicly. She didn’t threaten, exactly. She didn’t have to. The implication was clear enough.
So I caved. I figured I’d explain to Hannah afterward. She’d understand.
She always understands.
Except she didn’t stick around to let me explain.
She left. She came home and packed her bags and left her ring on the counter and now she wants a divorce.
Because of the speech? Because I thanked Julie instead of her?
That seems extreme, like an overreaction, like…
No. Wait.