Chapter 3
Viv
The message from Celeste arrived midmorning, sandwiched between two alerts from the school district and a spam email promising “unparalleled anti-aging technology.” Hers was the only one I opened. It was efficient, bordering on clinical:
Hi Vivienne—
Would you mind terribly if I borrowed Adrian for an hour this afternoon? There’s a situation at the campus I could use his help with. I trust his judgment, and I promise not to keep him more than an hour.
Hope this week’s going well for you.
Best, C
I read it three times. It was the kind of message that made it impossible to be angry, because it had the precise geometry of a compliment: you’re the gatekeeper, you’re the one I owe, you have the power to say no. I drafted a reply, deleted it, then typed another and pressed send.
Of course, happy to lend him out. Just don’t forget to return him on time—he’s booked for a 7 p.m. reservation tonight.
—V
I imagined Celeste laughing at the phrase “booked,” the same way I once did, then set my phone down and went back to the spreadsheet of gala donors I was supposed to be organizing for the school auction.
I didn’t tell Adrian about Celeste’s request until he came home that evening, suit jacket slung over one shoulder and hair a little out of place from the wind.
He looked tired, but in the way people do when they’ve been busy doing something important, not like they’d been drained or diminished.
“Celeste asked if you’d help her with something at Stanford,” I said, clearing dishes from the kitchen island.
He made a noise in his throat, a low hmm, then said, “I figured she’d need something. She texted, but I was on a call.” He set the jacket down, rolled his sleeves up, and came to stand behind me, hands resting lightly on my shoulders. “Are you okay with it? I can say no.”
“It’s fine. She needs you for an hour. That leaves us plenty of time to make our reservation. If we’re late, the restaurant will release the table.”
He smiled, kissed the top of my head, and said, “I’ll be home with time to spare.”
He left before I finished cleaning up. I watched him from the window, his stride quick and even, his silhouette framed by the last flat light of the day. He was always good about making promises he could keep, right up until he wasn’t.
The restaurant was on the Embarcadero, a new place with floor-to-ceiling windows and a bar made from a single slab of polished wood, the kind that had probably cost a small fortune to source and install.
The hostess greeted me by name, led me to a window table, and poured sparkling water into a glass so thin I was afraid it might shatter if I breathed wrong.
I checked my phone: 6:53. I ordered an appetizer for the table, then watched the city roll by outside, cargo ships like ghostly blocks drifting under the bridges, pedestrians in windbreakers hunched against the evening chill.
I tried to guess which ones were tourists and which were locals.
Tourists always looked up; locals pretended the city was theirs alone.
The server brought the appetizer—tiny potato cakes stacked with curls of smoked fish—and set it carefully in the center of the table.
“Will your guest be joining you soon?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s on his way.”
I ate one of the cakes, wiped my fingers on the napkin, and sipped water. At 7:18 my phone buzzed. A text from Adrian:
Running late—Celeste is stuck in a meeting but I’ll be there in 20. Start without me.
I typed back: No problem, I’m fine. See you soon.
I ordered the main course, because it seemed like the right thing to do, and because I was hungry.
I watched the staff work the room, their choreography almost balletic: the way they wove between tables, pausing to refill a glass or clear a plate with just the right degree of deference.
No one ever looked bored, but no one looked entirely present, either.
It was a kind of performance. I wondered if they went home and dropped the routine at the door, or if it lingered even after they put on sweatpants and microwaved leftovers in the dark.
The main arrived, perfectly plated, fish skin crisp and shimmering. I ate half, boxed the rest, and checked the time: 7:59.
Another text:
Sorry—things got complicated. Order dessert? Will explain when I get there.
The woman at the next table glanced at me with something that was almost, but not quite, pity. I smiled, shrugged, and turned my attention to the night outside. The Bay Bridge sparkled in the distance, lights reflected a hundred times in the water. It was almost beautiful enough to distract me.
At 8:27, I paid the check, left a tip generous enough to compensate for the awkwardness, and walked out. The hostess looked up as I passed, eyebrows flicking just slightly upward.
“Have a good night, Mrs. Laurent,” she said.
I walked home. It wasn’t far, but the wind was sharp, and I wished I’d brought a coat.
I thought about the sketchbook upstairs, the photo of myself with arms thrown wide, and about how much time had passed since I’d last felt like that person.
Not just the years, but the way they’d been folded over and creased, like paper that keeps being refolded until the edges start to tear.
When I got back to the house, all the lights were off except for a single lamp in the living room.
I sat on the couch, took off my shoes, and watched the minutes tick by.
At 12:07 the front door opened and Adrian came in, carrying the faint smell of wine and rain and someone else’s perfume.
A very familiar perfume at that. It had to be Celeste.
He saw me on the couch and paused, as if surprised.
I took a deep breath and exhaled and I looked up at him.
“Hey,” he said. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
I waited for him to continue, to offer an apology, or at least an explanation. He set his keys down, ran a hand through his hair, and looked at me with the helpless smile of a man who can’t tell if he’s done something wrong or not.
“I’m sorry I missed dinner,” he said. “Celeste’s meeting ran late, and then her team had a crisis. I tried to leave, but she insisted—”
“It’s fine,” I said, and this time I meant it. “I ordered for us, but I brought your entrée home. It’s in the fridge.”
He smiled again, grateful, and came to sit beside me. He put his arm around me and pulled me close, the way he always did when he wanted to reset the day, as if proximity could erase the memory of every other hour.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, voice low.
I rested my head on his chest and closed my eyes.
The house was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of his heartbeat under my ear.
I let myself be still, and for the first time in months, I felt nothing at all.
Not sadness or anger or even loneliness.
Just a blank, quiet space where something used to be.
That night, while Adrian slept beside me, I got up and went to my office.
I opened my laptop, clicked through three tabs, and found the page I was looking for: the website for a divorce attorney a friend had once mentioned in confidence, years ago.
I clicked the “schedule a consultation” button, filled in the blank fields with careful precision, and hit submit.
I closed the laptop and stood in the darkness for a minute, the blue afterimage still imprinted on my eyes. Then I went back to bed and lay awake until dawn, wondering whether anyone ever really came back when they left a part of themselves behind.