Chapter 13
Adrian
Weeks slid by, each one slightly different than the last, until the raw edge of missing her dulled into something I could almost forget.
There were no midnight emails, no desperate texts, no schemes to win her back.
I stopped showing up outside the atelier, stopped searching her name online.
Instead, I made a list of the things I’d always put off, and started working through it.
First, I cut my work hours. Not in the performative way I used to—leaving the office at six but emailing all night—but for real. I gave the team more autonomy, delegated the projects I secretly hated, and started leaving my phone in a drawer after dinner.
Then I called my parents, just to talk. I met Mark and Jonathan at the driving range, and instead of rehashing old drama, we just hit balls and watched the sun go down.
I fixed the bike that had been rusting in the garage for years.
I read a book cover to cover, then another.
I even called the therapist whose number Vivi had slipped into my wallet two years ago.
Therapy was not what I expected. The woman listened more than she spoke, and when she did speak, she asked questions that made me angry and then, later, sad. We talked about work, about the marriage, about the version of myself I wanted to be but never quite managed.
Mostly, we talked about how to be alone, and how that wasn’t the same as being lonely.
I started cooking, badly, and learned that I liked my eggs overcooked and my toast nearly burnt.
I went to the movies alone. I took long walks in the park with no destination.
For the first time in decades, I had a life that wasn’t defined by my job, or my marriage, or what people expected me to be.
Sometimes, when the house was very quiet, I’d wonder if Vivienne was as happy as she looked in the photos online. But I didn’t reach out. I let her live.
And slowly, I learned how to live, too.