4. Fran
— ? —
Fran
The Davis Furniture showcase is the kind of event I’ve learned to dread.
Nineteen months of marriage, and I’ve attended maybe a dozen of these things, product launches, industry galas, charity events where the Davis name opens doors and I’m expected to stand beside my husband and smile like I mean it.
I’ve gotten good at the smile. I’ve gotten good at the small talk and the strategic mingling and the careful performance of being Mrs. Logan Davis.
What I haven’t gotten good at is the feeling that comes after, when we’re home and he disappears into his workshop and I’m alone with my thoughts and a glass of wine that never quite dulls the edges.
Tonight is worse, though. Tonight, Sloane is here.
She’s been in our lives for a month now, a month of dinners I didn’t plan and conversations I’m not part of and that text message glowing on his phone in the middle of the night.
Tonight was so wonderful. Just like old times.
xo. I haven’t mentioned it. I don’t know how to mention it without sounding like the jealous wife I’m terrified of becoming.
So I swallow it, the way I’ve swallowed everything else in this marriage, and I tell myself that jealousy is beneath me.
The lie gets harder to believe every day.
The venue is one of those converted warehouse spaces that rich people love, exposed brick, industrial lighting, the kind of carefully curated aesthetic that costs more than it looks.
Waiters circulate with champagne and tiny appetizers that taste like money and leave you hungry.
I’ve already done two laps of the room, making small talk with people whose names I won’t remember tomorrow, and my face hurts from smiling.
“You look like you’re being held at gunpoint,” Theo says, materializing beside me with a champagne flute in each hand. He passes me one without asking. “Smile any harder and your face might crack.”
“That’s the goal.” I accept the drink gratefully. “Crack my face, fall apart in public, give the society pages something to talk about.”
“Bold strategy.” He clinks his glass against mine. “I usually just get drunk and say something inappropriate to my mother’s friends.”
“That does sound more efficient.”
We stand together near the back of the room, watching the crowd mill around displays of Logan’s work.
Everything is beautiful, the chairs and tables and bed frames arranged like art installations, each piece lit to show off the grain and curves that make Davis Furniture famous.
I’ve learned enough in nineteen months to recognize the craftsmanship, to appreciate the hours of work that go into every joint and finish.
Logan is good at what he does. That was never the question.
“Do you know what he’s presenting tonight?” I ask Theo, keeping my voice casual. “He mentioned a new line, but he didn’t give me details.”
Something flickers across Theo’s face, there and gone before I can read it. “He’s been working on something in the back workshop for months. Wouldn’t let anyone see it.”
“Not even you?”
“Especially not me.” Theo takes a long sip of champagne. “My brother keeps his cards close. You’ve probably noticed.”
I’ve noticed. I’ve noticed the way he compartmentalizes his life into boxes that don’t touch, work and family and me, all kept carefully separate.
I’ve noticed the way he talks about his projects in generalities, never specifics, like sharing too much would make him vulnerable.
I’ve noticed the way he disappears into his workshop for hours at a time and comes out smelling like sawdust and silence, and I’ve learned not to ask questions because the answers never satisfy.
“He’s presenting the centerpiece last,” Theo says. “That’s usually where the big reveal goes.”
“Should I be worried?”
Another flicker. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Before I can press him on the unconvincing reassurance, the lights dim and Harlan Davis takes the stage.
Harlan is everything Logan isn’t, smooth, polished, comfortable in front of a crowd.
He welcomes the guests with practiced ease, makes a joke about the company’s humble beginnings that gets exactly the laugh it’s designed for, and then introduces his son with the kind of pride that sounds real even if I’m never quite sure it is.
Logan walks out looking like every woman’s fantasy and my personal nightmare. Tailored suit, that wavy black hair pushed back from his face, light brown eyes scanning the crowd like he’s searching for something he can’t find. His gaze sweeps past me without stopping.
Then it lands on Sloane, in the front row, wearing a red dress that probably cost more than my monthly flower farm revenue.
His shoulders relax. Just slightly, just enough for someone who’s been watching him for nineteen months to notice. He found what he was looking for.
And it wasn’t me.
“Thank you all for coming,” Logan says, his voice amplified through speakers that make him sound like a stranger.
He’s stiff up there, uncomfortable in a way I recognize from every public appearance we’ve made together.
The man who talked my ear off about wood grain and joinery in his workshop, who laughed at my jokes in the dark, who touched me like I mattered, that man doesn’t exist under bright lights.
“Tonight I’m presenting a new line - pieces that represent a personal evolution in my work.
Something closer to what I really want to build. ”
He gestures, and an assistant wheels out the first piece.
The presentation unfolds the way these things always do.
Beautiful furniture, technical explanations, polite applause.
Logan talks about design philosophy and material selection and the importance of form following function, and I let my attention drift because I’ve heard versions of this speech before.
He’s good at describing his work. He’s terrible at describing himself.
The disconnect used to fascinate me; now it just feels like another wall I can’t climb.
Theo stays beside me through the whole thing, refilling my champagne when it gets low, making quiet commentary that keeps me from spiraling into my own head.
Theo is willing to acknowledge the absurdity of his family in a way that none of the other Davises seem capable of.
Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to marry him instead, if I would have gotten the same contract, the same arrangement, but with someone who actually knows how to talk to me.
But I didn’t marry Theo. I married Logan. And I’m standing in a room full of people, watching my husband present furniture to strangers, feeling more alone than I’ve ever felt in my life.
“And finally,” Logan says, and something in his voice shifts. Warmer. Almost tender. “The centerpiece of the collection.”
An assistant wheels out a dressing table.
It’s stunning. Even from across the room, even through the haze of champagne and exhaustion, I can see that this is something special.
The wood is that same quilted maple he showed me in his workshop all those months ago, creamy white with a shimmer that catches the light like water.
The curves are organic, flowing, almost sensual.
The mirror seems to float above the surface, held by some invisible mechanism that makes it look like magic.
“This piece is special to me,” Logan says, and his eyes find Sloane in the front row.
The knife slides in.
“I built it with a specific woman in mind. Someone who’s been part of my life for as long as I can remember, who saw me through some of the hardest years of my childhood.”
Twist.
“She told me once about all the little frustrations of getting ready in the morning - the drawers that don’t hold the right things, the mirrors at the wrong height, the lighting that never quite works.”
Deeper.
“So I designed this to solve every one of those problems. Custom compartments for every product she uses. Adjustable mirror with built-in lighting that mimics natural daylight. Hidden outlets for styling tools. Every detail planned around her specific needs, her specific routine.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is almost soft. “This piece is called The Sloane.”
The room erupts in applause.
I stand frozen, champagne glass in hand, while the world tilts sideways.
I can feel people looking at me, of course they’re looking at me, they’d have to be blind not to look, and I can hear the whispers starting, the soft hiss of scandal and sympathy and did you see her face passing through the crowd like wildfire.
My husband just dedicated his finest work to another woman. By name. In public. In front of everyone we know.
“Jesus Christ,” Theo breathes beside me. His hand finds my elbow, grip tight. “Fran, I didn’t - I swear I didn’t know he was going to-”
“I need to leave.” The words come out steady, which feels like a miracle considering my chest is caving in. “Right now.”
“Okay. Okay, yes, let’s go.” Theo starts steering me toward the back of the room, but I pull away from him.
“Not you. Just me.” I hand him my champagne glass. “I need to be alone for a minute. Please.”
“Fran-”
“Please, Theo.” My voice cracks on his name, and I see his face change, see him understand that I’m about to fall apart and I can’t do it in front of him. “Just give me a few minutes. I’ll find you.”
He hesitates, clearly torn between respecting my request and his instinct to help. Finally, he nods. “I’ll be by the bar. If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming to find you.”
“Thank you.”
I walk toward the restrooms with my chin up and my shoulders back and my heart in pieces, and I don’t look at the stage where my husband is still talking, still accepting compliments for the dressing table he built for a woman who isn’t me.
I don’t look at Sloane in her red dress, basking in attention that should have been mine.
I don’t look at anyone, because if I make eye contact, I’ll see pity, and if I see pity, I’ll shatter.