5. Gracie
— ? —
Gracie
The champagne tastes like apology. That’s the only reason I’m drinking it, because every sip reminds me I shouldn’t be here, and that reminder is the only thing keeping my spine straight in this dress.
Another gallery. Another crowd of people who know my husband’s brushstrokes better than they know his face.
I’ve gotten good at the autopilot smile, the gracious-wife nod.
Teeth show, eyes crinkle, hand rests lightly on whatever surface is nearest. Nobody looks close enough to see that I’m already gone.
I’m mentally packing while a collector tells me how “visceral” Mal’s latest series is.
Underwear drawer first. Then the photos from before, the ones where we’re muddy and laughing and look like ourselves.
Leave the gowns and the jewelry and every single thing he bought me to make up for not being there.
“It’s like he paints with his whole body,” the collector says, gesturing with his glass.
“Mm,” I say. “He really does.”
The man wanders off, satisfied, and I find an empty stretch of bar. The bartender refills my glass without asking. I must look like I need it.
“Gracie.”
The voice is warm honey poured over a razor blade. I don’t turn around.
“I was hoping I’d find you alone.” Odette slides onto the stool beside me, her gold dress catching light like she was born under a spotlight. “These things can be so overwhelming, can’t they? All these people wanting a piece of him.”
“I’m used to it.”
“Of course you are.” She smiles, and the smile shows too many teeth. “You’ve been so patient. Five years of standing in corners at his events. That’s - well, that’s devotion.”
I take a sip of champagne. Don’t react, don’t give her anything.
“I’ve always thought it was sweet, actually.” She leans closer, dropping her voice like we’re girlfriends sharing secrets. “The starter-wife thing. Very charming. Very - what’s the word - quaint.”
My fingers tighten on the glass. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t be offended. I mean it as a compliment.” Her hand brushes my arm, light as a threat. “Some women are meant to be there at the beginning, you know? Before everything gets complicated. Before he needs someone who really understands the work.”
“And that’s you.”
“I understand the hours.” She tilts her head, all sympathy. “The late nights. The 2 a.m. breakthroughs when he’s so deep in a piece he forgets to eat, forgets to sleep, forgets everything except the canvas. You know how he gets.”
I know how he used to get. With me.
“Those sessions practically write themselves,” she continues, and a blade glints behind her eyes now. “He’s so present when he’s creating. So alive. I imagine that’s hard for you - knowing that energy exists and not being the one who brings it out of him.”
“What exactly are you saying, Odette?”
“Nothing.” Innocent. Silk-smooth. “Just that some women inspire, and some women wait up. Both are valid.” She pats my wrist, a single, deliberate touch.
“He never talks about you at the studio, you know. I used to think that was sweet too. Keeping his worlds separate. Protecting the little life back home.”
She stands, smoothing her dress.
“Enjoy the party, Gracie. I think he’s about to make an announcement.”
She disappears into the crowd like smoke, and I’m left gripping my glass so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.
The little life back home.
Starter wife.
I set the champagne down. My hands are shaking, and I refuse to let that be true, so I press them flat against the bar until they stop.
The crowd shifts, and I see Mal in the wings near the small stage, talking to a man with a clipboard.
He’s in the blue shirt I picked out this morning.
The one that makes his eyes look like water.
He didn’t ask why I’d laid it out for him, just put it on, kissed my forehead, said he’d see me at the venue.
I push through the crowd.
“Mal.”
He turns, distracted. “Hey. Having a good time?”
“I need five minutes. It’s important.”
“Yeah, of course.” But he’s looking past me, at the clipboard guy, at the stage. “Can it wait until after? I’m up in two minutes.”
“Mal, please. Five minutes.”
He squeezes my hand without meeting my eyes. “After, okay? I promise, right after.”
“It’s-”
But he’s already walking toward the podium, and the clipboard guy is adjusting the microphone, and someone is dimming the lights for dramatic effect, and my husband waves me off like I’m a stagehand asking about the wine order.
Fine.
I find a spot near the back where I can see him clearly. The lights go down. A spotlight hits the podium. Mal steps into it, all broad shoulders and nervous energy, and even now, even after everything, my heart lurches at the sight of him, stupid and traitorous.
“Thank you all for coming,” he says. The crowd quiets. “I know I’m supposed to have a speech prepared, but I’m better with brushes than words, so I’ll keep this short.”
Polite laughter. I don’t smile.
“Tonight, I’m announcing what I’ve been working toward my entire career.
” He pauses, and I can see his hands trembling slightly on the podium.
He’s excited. Genuinely, boyishly excited.
“My collection - the full body of work from the past three years - will be going on tour. Starting in New York, then Houston, Chicago, and eventually overseas.”
Applause erupts. I stand very still.
“This wouldn’t be possible without an incredible team of people who believe in this work as much as I do.
” He smiles, and his face has a brightness I haven’t seen in months.
“And I’m thrilled to announce that Odette Vane will be curating the tour.
Her vision, her expertise - I couldn’t ask for a better partner on this journey. ”
Partner.
The word drops into the room and everything around it goes still.
Odette steps into the spotlight beside him, radiant, and the crowd applauds harder. Mal shakes her hand, no, he takes both her hands, holds them for a moment while cameras flash, and I watch my husband look at another woman the way he used to look at me.
“The tour will run for several months,” he continues, “and I’ll be traveling with the collection for most of that time. It’s going to be an incredible experience.”
Months.
Alone with her.
The applause washes over me, tinny and distant, and my ears are ringing now, a high-pitched whine that blocks out everything except my own heartbeat.
I should leave, walk out right now, while everyone’s distracted.
But then Mal is stepping off the stage, and he’s cutting through the crowd, and he’s coming toward me, not toward Odette, not toward the collectors or the critics, toward me.
He takes both my hands. His smile is huge, unguarded. He looks like the boy who proposed to me in a thunderstorm.
“Gracie. Did you hear? This is everything. This is everything I’ve worked for.”
And God help me, I waver.
Because that smile is the orchard smile, the fence-line smile, the smile he gave me when Biscuit first wandered into his family’s apple trees and I came to fetch her and found him instead.
My stupid heart starts beating sideways, starts whispering maybe, maybe this is the moment, maybe he’ll see now, maybe the tour will be closure and then he’ll come home and-
A crash. Glass shattering somewhere behind him. A collective gasp from the crowd.
Mal’s head turns.
I follow his gaze and see Odette crumpling dramatically into a caterer’s arms, champagne tray on the floor around her, one hand pressed to her forehead like a Victorian heroine.
Mal drops my hands.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t look back. He crosses the room in three strides and catches her from the caterer, one arm around her waist, the other touching her face, asking if she’s okay, if she needs water, if someone should call a doctor.
I stand in the middle of his shining night, hands still open where he left them, and watch my husband hold another woman.
The wavering stops.
It stops like a door slamming, like a light switching off, like the exact moment you stop trying to save what doesn’t want to be saved. I watch him brush hair from her face, and I feel the last eight years of fighting fold up and put themselves away.
I’m the only one who ever fought for this marriage.
And I’m done fighting alone.
That’s enough, and I’m done.