CHAPTER FOURTEEN WINNIE

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WINNIE

Chrissy slides a piece of her rosemary focaccia onto my plate. I finish slurping my pasta napolitana. “Thanks. Want some of my pasta?”

“Want? Always. Should? Not in this lifetime.” Chrissy moans, taking a sip of her fat-burning tea. “You need to eat, and well. Otherwise, your family will hold me accountable.”

“Ma’s all bark and no bite. Don’t pay any heed to her.” I know my shameless family emails Chrissy about me, asking for weekly updates about my life. I also know that Chrissy basks in it. She loves being my designated BFF/savior.

“She’s not wrong, though. You’re all skin and bones.” My agent throws me a worried look. “Didn’t you hear heroin chic is out? This is our era, girl. Curves for miles and appetite are in.”

“Like I’m going to let the people at Vogue tell me how much I should weigh,” I huff.

We decided to have a quick brunch before my rehearsal. We invited Arya, but she was too busy with work to come. It’s been a week since Arsène strode into the theater and left me reeling. He hasn’t visited the place since, but hasn’t fired me either. When Rahim, Sloan, and Renee asked me why he took me aside, I lied and said he wanted to ensure I was okay after my cramping leg.

You know, health and safety liability. The last thing he needs is for us to get injured and complain about the sagging wood on the stage.

I hate lying. Not just because of the moral implications. I’m a terrible liar. Comes with the territory of having a really bad memory. But no one can find out what binds Arsène and me together. I don’t want to be pitied, whispered at, judged; most of all—I don’t want them to think the worst about Paul. Not when even I still can’t digest the idea that he was unfaithful.

Chrissy puts her fork down and gives me the Stare. The one Ma perfected when I was in high school and snuck out to make out with Rhys right after Sunday church.

“Winnie, we need to talk.”

“Oh, I know that line.” I break another piece of bread, dip it into the olive oil and vinegar, and pop it into my mouth. “You can’t break up with me, Chris. You’re the only friend I have in this godforsaken city.”

“You have to move on.” She remains serious.

“Move on?” I choke out, genuinely appalled by the idea. “It’s been less than a year!”

She cannot seriously mean I should date again. Maybe she is thinking I should adopt a pet or get out more. Not that these ideas seem more appealing than dating—nothing has sounded appealing since Paul’s been gone—but at least they’re not outrageous.

“Don’t give me that.” Chrissy takes a sip of her smelly fat-burning tea. “Paul wasn’t some tortured saint. He was a cheating scumbag.”

“That’s pure speculation. We don’t know that,” I grind out.

“We do.” Chrissy slams her tumbler back on the table. “You don’t. Everyone around you knows. They just don’t say anything because you’ve been through enough.”

Do my parents and sisters think the same thing? That Paul had an affair?

“You have no reason to sit and pine for him. Ordering him food, doing the whole preaccident ritual,” she says with conviction, spinning in her chair to signal our waitress to bring the check. Her eyes remain on me.

Yeah. Chrissy may or may not have caught me keeping up with my takeout tradition with Paul.

“Look.” I groan. “Even if he did cheat on me—which I’m not saying that he did—we’d shared an entire history together. We’d been through a lot. I can’t just forget about him. It’s not that simple.”

“My point exactly! Another reason why you should move on. If he did this to you after everything you’d gone through, then I’m sorry, but he shouldn’t be forgiven, nor mourned. No one’s gonna judge you if you move on.”

The delicious food tastes like mud in my mouth. The waitress slides the check between us. I attempt to grab it, but Chrissy is faster. She grins, wiggling her eyebrows as she drops her credit card into the black leather bill holder and hands it back to the waitress.

“Point is, it’s time for you to move on, before the world moves on without you. Tough times never last, honey. Tough people, however .?.?.” Chrissy reaches to pat my hand as the waitress hurries along with her credit card. “Life is beautiful and wild, and it doesn’t wait for you to decide to participate in it. You need to jump into the water headfirst. And when you do? Make sure to make a splash.”

An hour later, I walk into Calypso Hall for rehearsal. Since the place is closed until the matinee shows start, Jeremy, the daytime security guard, unlocks the door for me.

“Miz Ashcroft. Lovely day out, isn’t it?” he greets me.

I smile back in response, handing him a biscotti and coffee I purchased from the Italian place before coming here. “The loveliest, Jeremy. Here. I hope this sweetens up your day.”

“You’re too kind for this city, Winnifred.” He sighs.

I make my way backstage. Jeremy waves a frantic hand to stop me.

“Hey, wait, Miz Ashcroft! Have you seen this? Impressive, don’t you think?”

I turn around, coming face to face with something I have no idea how I missed when I walked in. It’s a floor-to-ceiling poster of The Seagull. Rather than displaying all the actors, it’s a close-up of Rahim and me.

ANTON CHEKHOV’STHE SEAGULL.

STARRING: RAHIM FALLAHA, WINNIFRED ASHCROFT, RENEE HINDS, AND SLOAN BARANSKI

The shot is of me staring at the camera, Rahim standing behind me, whispering in my ear. It is beautiful, tender, and erotic. But I can’t muster any excitement and pleasure from it. My heart doesn’t skip a beat, nor does it beat faster. This is the height of my career—something that would have made the old me leap in excitement, gather Jeremy into a hug, kiss the poster, take pictures, and send them to everyone on my contact list.

I feel so empty I want to scream just to fill my body with something.

Shed a tear. Just the one. To show yourself that you can. You’re an actress, for crying out loud!

“Good for you, Miz Ashcroft.” Jeremy tilts his hat in my direction. “Well deserved.”

Somehow I get through the entire rehearsal without having a meltdown over not having a meltdown about the poster. Am I ever going to feel anything again? Joy? Pleasure? Jealousy? Hate? I’ll take anything at this point.

Rahim is in high spirits. He rushes to admire our poster when it’s time for our break.

“How sad is it that this place sucks so bad we get excited over a poster?” Rahim clucks his tongue, examining himself on the floor-to-ceiling thing once again. “Do you know how much money they poured into Hamilton’s marketing?”

Lucas walks around like a peacock between rehearsals. Apparently, for the first time in twenty years, actual critics are going to attend a premiere at Calypso Hall. He smiles and laughs with the technical crew, doesn’t complain when two of the sound guys go home early, and hugs the set designer when she accidentally breaks a prop.

When rehearsal is over, Renee and Sloan dash to an amateur production by a mutual friend that’s premiering tonight.

“See you tomorrow, Win. Oh, and my girlfriend says thanks for the cookie tip.” Rahim kisses my cheek, also on his way out. “The yolk and brown sugar? Godsend!”

“Tell her to call me whenever. This thing is full of recipe hacks.” I knock on my temple. “But remember, no sharing trade secrets with your felting club!”

He laughs, turning around and heading out the door. I amble into my dressing room.

It’s a tiny space backstage, but it’s all mine. I close the door behind me, plaster my forehead to the cool wood of the door, and suck in a cleansing breath.

“You’re fine. Everything’s fine,” I tell myself out loud.

“I beg to differ,” someone drawls behind me, making me jump out of my skin. “Not many people who talk to themselves are considered fine.”

The voice, wry and amused, belongs to the only man I do have some feelings toward these days. Pure loathing, to be specific. I find Arsène sitting on a tattered yellow couch, one leg crossed over the other, the forbidding emperor that he is.

“Mr.?Corbin, what a surprise.” My heart ripples in my chest. It’s the first time I feel the organ in months, and I don’t like that this Byronic, tortured man is the reason. “What brings you to my little den?”

“I’m currently between meetings. I’m thinking of acquiring an escape room on Bryant Park. Medieval-dungeon themed. They seem to be all the rage.”

“Thanks for sharing. It means a lot. Now, let me be specific. What are you doing in my room?” I gather my hair into a ponytail.

“Your room?” He arches a skeptical brow. “I hadn’t realized you’re so fiercely possessive of it. Grew up with siblings, huh?”

Yes, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction by sharing this piece of information with him. Also, I hate how his tone is always friendly and mocking, like he can stand me more than I can stand him.

“You grew up with a sister too. Though I can’t say you felt very brotherly toward her at all.” I cross my arms over my chest, leaning against the door. “Cut to the chase. I have things to do today.”

“I didn’t know they taught you sarcasm in God’s Country, Bumpkin.” He runs a hand over his athletic thigh, and I resist the urge to follow the movement with my eyes. “I think it’s time we exchange notes about what happened that night.” He drapes his arm along the back of the couch. “Everything we found out in the aftermath. I’ll show you mine, and you’ll show me yours, so to speak.”

“I don’t like to be shown anything by you.” I wrinkle my nose.

Truthfully, I want to do this. Badly. The amount of times I’ve considered reaching out to this man to ask him what he knows is countless. But I also don’t trust his intentions, considering our brief history.

His lips twist in a grin. “How many Hail Marys do you need to say for lying, Winnifred?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are.” His smirk widens. “I know because your lips are moving.”

“Even if I do want to exchange notes”—I roll my eyes—“how do I know you’ll tell the truth? You could lie just to spite me. What if I fulfill my part of the bargain and you bullshit your way out of it?”

“I’ve no particular interest in hurting you,” he assures me calmly. “Nor sparing you any pain. I simply want to put together the most accurate picture of what happened.”

“And you want to get this information from a—quote—gold-digging bitch like me?” I fail to keep the hurt out of my words.

“Winnifred, darling!” He tips his head, roaring with laughter. I really want to stab him. Right in the throat. “Don’t tell me you got offended? Sweetheart, you being a gold digger earns you nothing but brownie points from me. Don’t forget I work on Wall Street, where greed is welcome—even celebrated.”

“You’re a horrid person.” I shake my head.

“Why, thank you. At any rate, as I said, I have a few spare minutes and some information I’m sure you’d be interested in. I gathered that Lucas’s rehearsal is over, so if you feel like exchanging notes, there’s no time like the present.”

I finger my chin, my curiosity piqued. The need to know what happened is greater than the desire to stick it to him. Plus, I have nowhere else to be right now. My schedule’s wide open and consists mainly of staring at the walls in my apartment.

“All right.” I cross the tiny space between the door and my vanity, plopping onto a chair opposite him. “But be quick about it.”

He shakes his head. “Not here.”

“Why?”

“We could be seen.”

“And?” I narrow my eyes at him.

“And I don’t want to be affiliated with you for numerous reasons, all of them highly logical.” He spells it out for me. “The main one being that, technically speaking, I’m your employer. We shouldn’t be in a closed room together.”

“Gosh, employer. That’s a big word for someone who barely pays us minimum wage around here.”

He grins again, satisfied with the trouble I’m giving him. “It’s a free country. If you wish to be employed somewhere else, I’d be the last person to stop you.”

“I’m not going to your apartment.” I bring the conversation back to its original topic.

“You wound me, Bumpkin.” He stands up, buttoning his blazer. “I’d never make a pass at an employee. That’s bad taste and dubious ethics.”

“Aren’t those your defining traits?” I arch an eyebrow.

To this, he full-blown laughs. “I’ll call us two separate taxis. What’s your pants size?”

“Hmm, let me see.” I twist in my seat, tugging at the size tag of my jeans. “Says here none of your business.”

Another sincere laugh escapes him. “My apologies for upsetting your southern notions. See, here in New York, women don’t let their dress size define them.”

“My size doesn’t define me. My right not to answer your personal questions does.”

“Humor me anyway, just for funsies.” His smile—when done right—can make a woman weak in the knees. Dimpled and boyish, with just the right amount of snark. Poor Grace stood no chance. I wonder if they got it on while they were under the same roof. Of course they did. Well, that’s kind of hot.

Since when do I think about things that are hot?

“Small or medium.” I purse my lips. “Now my turn to ask a question—how old are you, exactly?”

“Exactly? Thirty-five, seven months, three days, and .?.?.” He glances down at his watch. “Eleven hours, give or take.”

He feels much older to me, and I’m twenty-eight. Maybe because he has that larger-than-life aura.

“A taxi will arrive for you in eight minutes. But first, go change into men’s clothes,” Arsène instructs, standing up.

“What’s wrong with my current clothes?” I look down. I’m wearing a pink tank top and a pair of casual jeans from the GAP. My sandals are a hand-me-down pair from Lizzy.

“Nothing at all,” he assures me smoothly. “All the same, I do need you to look a little more masculine.”

“Masculine?”

“Yes. You need to dress as a man.”

“Where the hell are you taking me?”

He is already out the door, his back to me. “You’ll see.”

The taxi pulls out in front of a white beaux arts building. It is vast and stunning and looks ancient. What is it? A hotel? An office building? My senses kick into overdrive. I haven’t had this much adrenaline coursing through my veins since .?.?. since .?.?.

Never. No one ever pushed you that far out of your comfort zone.

“That’s you, sir,” the taxi driver announces.

Sir.After my bizarre exchange with Arsène, I went and grabbed some clothes from a pile of extras for a Victorian-era musical. I’m wearing an ivory cotton shirt, a double-breasted vest, a dinner jacket, and some slacks. My hair is stuffed inside a brown newsboy’s hat, concealed from view. I’m pretty sure I look like Oliver Twist.

I push the taxi door open and take the steps to the building two at a time. I don’t have Arsène’s number, so I have no idea if he is already inside or not. When I reach the large black door, I see a golden label on it.

THE NEW AMSTERDAM.

A GENTLEMEN’S CLUB.

MEMBERS ONLY.

I had no idea gentlemen’s clubs still existed. I raise my fist, about to knock on the door, when a voice behind me booms.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I turn around, and of course, it is Arsène, who is in the habit of materializing out of thin air like a demon, narrating my every move. Out here, in the concrete jungle of Manhattan, in broad, natural daylight, I am forced to see that he is not only a man, but a striking one at that. His thick, jet-black hair; square jaw; prominent chin; and high cheekbones give him the appeal of an old-era gentleman.

“That’s a peculiar look, Bumpkin.” His pleased voice is oddly addictive. I wonder if he’s moved on from Grace yet. If he is seeing someone else. Somehow, I think not. Arsène is the kind of man to have a very particular taste.

“You said to dress like a man.” I scowl.

“One born in this century.”

“Sorry, we ran out of hipster Brooklyn men with plaid shirts, waxed beards, and Warby Parker glasses,” I bite out.

He shoulders past me to punch in a secret code into the electric lock of the door. “You do amuse me, Winnifred. You haven’t surrendered your odd individuality in order to fit in just yet. This uninhibited, innocent vibe? It’s growing on me.”

“I’m sure there was a compliment under all that patronizing mumbo jumbo, but if it’s okay, I’d like to keep things between us professional.” I step away from him, just to prove to myself that I’m not flattered. And really, I’m not.

“Well, it’s time to put your acting skills to good use, because if they find out you’re a woman, there’s a teeny, tiny chance you’ll get arrested for trespassing.”

“Excuse me?” I thunder, finding myself yet again riled up by this impossible man. “What on earth were you—”

He nudges the door open with his shoulder and gives me a light shove inside. I’m thrust into the situation. It’s a vast hallway, all limestone pillars and columns and rich beige carpets. Men in suits and expensive golf wear pass us by. Some of them nod in acknowledgment to Arsène. Everyone looks like variations of Paul’s Wall Street friends.

I follow Arsène’s brisk steps, trying to rein in my panic.

Sweat gathers under my armpits and on the back of my neck.

“What if I get caught?” I whisper-shout to him.

“Just say you’re Jupiter.”

“Jupiter?” I ask, confused.

“That you’re the cleaner. You know that Jupiter vacuums and absorbs comets and meteors? One estimate I read suggests if Jupiter didn’t suck objects into its sphere, the number of massive projectiles hitting the Earth would be ten thousand times greater.”

“That is .?.?. good to know.”

Arsène approaches a vast reception area.

“Cory, I need a private space for my nephew and me. What’s available?” He snaps his fingers to the man behind the reception desk.

“Mr.?Corbin.” Cory smiles, typing on his keyboard. “I didn’t know you had any nephews. Is he from around here?”

“The sticks.” Arsène waves a hand. “It’s his first time in New York. He’s a little starstruck.”

He’s about to strike you in the back if you’re not careful.

“We have billiard room number two, or the tennis court.”

Arsène aims his hawkish gaze at me.

“Billiard room.” I drop my voice low. I’m great at pool. Rhys taught me when we were dating. We even went and won a few amateur tournaments together.

Cory, who hears me, gestures to the right side of the foyer. “Gentlemen, I hope you enjoy this establishment, and Manhattan.”

Five minutes later, we’re in an empty billiard room full of shelves laden with antique books and a fully stocked liquor bar. Leather upholstered chairs are scattered around us.

Arsène steps behind the bar, clearly in his natural habitat. “What can I get you for your troubles, my dear nephew?”

I look around me, still mesmerized. I hadn’t stepped into the world of the rich and corrupt since Paul passed away. I haven’t missed it, but I forgot how it made me feel. Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.

“Anything I can’t usually afford.” I shrug.

“They don’t keep the exclusive stuff in the open bar. Let’s see.” He runs a finger over a row of bottles. “Will Bowmore do?”

I pin him with a what-is-that? stare.

Another devastating smirk. “Scottish. Single malt. More or less your age.”

“And how old do you think I am?”

“Twenty.”

“Eight,” I correct. Twenty-eight.

“You’re eight? Well, may I suggest a visit to the dermatologist? You certainly look past puberty, and now I feel all kinds of guilty for entertaining improper thoughts about you in Italy.”

He did, now? I push this little nugget of information to the back of my mind—there’s no trusting that it is true—and give myself a tour across the grand room.

Arsène pours a glass for each of us, ambles over, and hands me mine. I take a slow sip. The amber liquid is warm at first, scorching a path down my throat. Then a calm feeling washes over my limbs, like I just entered a relaxing bath.

He motions with the hand that holds the whiskey to the chairs. “Sit.”

“I want to play.”

I haven’t done anything fun since Paul passed. Now that I’m here, I’m thinking .?.?. why not? Everything else about this situation is strange. Surely, getting a game of billiards out of this won’t be such an awful betrayal against my late husband.

“I don’t.”

“Why?” I ask, gulping more of the liquid.

“I never play to lose.”

I find it refreshing that he doesn’t assume I’m a bad player, like many men did before him.

“You might not lose.” I lick the whiskey residue from my bottom lip.

“I will.” He seems completely at ease about his weaknesses, which is also interesting.

“How do you know?”

“You haven’t talked yourself into any corners so far.” He strides across the room, his back to me, and examines the bookshelves. “If you want to play, that means you’re good at it.”

Maybe it’s the whiskey, or maybe it’s just the fact I haven’t really interacted with anyone other than Chrissy, Arya, and my colleagues in a while, but instead of letting it go, I pick up a cue stick. After moving over to the fuzzy green table, I arrange the triangle rack on top of it.

“You little rebel,” Arsène says, picking up his own cue. “Fine, I’ll play.”

“It’s been a while since I did something fun.” I readjust my hat, tucking a ribbon of strawberry blonde hair back inside.

“What are we playing for?” he asks.

I think about it. “If I win, I want you to pay for a huge billboard sign and advertise The Seagull. You know, one of the fancy Times Square placements. Three days minimum.”

“I’ll do you one better. An entire week, best block available. And if I win, you quit,” he fires back, standing on the opposite side of the pool table from me.

Sourness explodes in my mouth. He still wants me gone.

“And here I thought you were mildly human,” I huff. “I should’ve—”

“Winnifred.” He smirks, delighted.

“What?”

“I won’t win.”

“But you—”

“And just for the record, I love that out of all the things I could’ve done for Calypso Hall—repair the floors, the seats, put a fresh coat of paint on the walls—you chose something for yourself. Very telling. I find altruism such a boring trait.”

I blush furiously because he is right. I could’ve asked for him to fix the theater. I never considered myself to be selfish, but something about this man inspires me to want to get things for myself. Maybe because he is so unapologetically self-serving.

He takes my limp hand in his, shakes it, and starts playing.

Arsène is, in fact, exceptionally bad at this. He doesn’t give excuses or get frustrated like Paul did whenever he proved himself to be less than adequate in axe throwing or basketball. On the contrary. Each time I slide another ball into a pocket, he lets out a delighted laugh. I’m never sure if he is laughing with me, because of me, or at me. But for the first time in months, I’m actually having fun, so I choose not to ask.

The first few minutes, we play silently. So I’m nearly caught off guard when he starts speaking.

“I suppose our starting point is that we both agree they were having an affair.”

My cue stumbles on the surface, creating a train of bald patch as I lose my grip on it. I straighten up. “No. We don’t.”

“They did.” Arsène stands back, his voice steady and low.

“Why? Because you always choose to believe the worst about people?” I lean against my cue.

“For at least nine months.” He ignores my question.

“Nine months?” Something inside me goes slack. That can’t possibly be right.

“Yes.” Arsène takes his turn, striking the stripy red ball straight into a pocket.

“How do you know?” I try to angle my stick on the table and, again, it slips.

If this is right .?.?. if Arsène is telling the truth .?.?. then that means .?.?.

For the first time in months, I feel. Oh, do I feel. Anger. Wrath. Pain. I want Paul’s blood. I want to resurrect him and kill him all over again. How could he do this to me? How could he?

It’s not that I haven’t suspected it. It’s that up until now, I told myself there could be other explanations. And I kept thinking that even if they did have an affair, it was recent. Not an ongoing thing. A month-old thing, maybe.

“I hired a private investigator.” He crosses his ankles. “Grace and Paul had been frequenting a hotel not very far from their office. All the receipts are from the nine months prior to the plane crash. All paid in cash.”

I drop the cue noisily. I stagger to the bar to fill my empty whiskey glass to the brim with more liquor, as if it’s sweet tea. I take a swig. “When’s the earliest receipt from?”

Arsène’s face is unreadable, a blank mask. “September thirteenth.”

“The thirteenth, you say?”

He nods. I close my eyes, bile coating my throat.

“I’m missing context here.” Arsène’s voice seeps into my body. “What’s significant about the date?”

I shake my head. It’s too personal. Besides, it has nothing to do with why we’re here.

“I need a minute.” I put my glass down, my drink sloshing everywhere. “Where’s the restroom?”

Silently, he points me in the direction. I make my way there in a daze. I lock myself in one of the cubicles, rip my vest off my chest, stuff it into my mouth, and scream into it until my vocal cords are raw. I bite down on the fabric until my gums are bleeding.

I want to torch the entire city of New York to the ground. To go back in time. To stay in Tennessee, in the comfort of my family. I could’ve had a good life. Yes, I wouldn’t be an actress on Broadway—but I’m not one now. At least I’d have Rhys—sweet, dependable, chivalrous Rhys—and a secure job at a high school, and people to lean on when things got tough.

Even through all this pain, all this heartache, I can’t find my tears. I blink fast, trying to produce moisture in my eyes, but to no avail.

“Oh, Paul!” I howl in the cubicle, punching the wall. “You asshole!”

Allowing myself a few minutes to recompose, I make my way back to the billiard room. Arsène waits where I left him, by the pool table, his posture imperial.

When I walk in, he frowns at me.

“What’re you looking at?” I lash out. “Never seen anyone have a nervous breakdown before?”

“I’ve seen plenty. And believe it or not, yours doesn’t even give me particular joy,” he says dryly. “But your hat’s off, and so is the vest. I take it you want to spend the night at the police station.”

I look down and realize that he is right. I stuffed the vest into a trash can after bleeding on it in the restroom, and now it is visible that under my cotton dress shirt, I have breasts. My blonde hair is spilling over my shoulders.

Still, I can’t muster enough energy to care.

I return to my whiskey glass, take another sip, and fall down into a leather recliner. “Tell me something nice about space.”

“What?” He lifts an eyebrow. I caught him off guard.

“Distract me!” I roar.

“All right. Close your eyes.”

Unbelievably, I do. I need a second to breathe, even if my designated therapist right now is Satan himself.

“About three billion years ago, Mars probably looked like a tranquil resort by the ocean. There’s some interesting fossils and craters on Mars that suggest a river ran through it. This means that, possibly, there was life on Mars. Maybe not as we know it, but life nonetheless.”

“Do you believe in aliens?” I murmur, eyes still closed.

“Believe in them?” he asks, surprised. “I don’t know any, so it’s hard to say I put my faith in them. Do I believe in their existence? Certainly. The question is, Are they close enough to be discovered, and more importantly—do we want to discover them?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “Maybe not. Humans have let us down. Why try our luck with other species?”

He laughs, and I realize that he is oddly entertained by my humor.

“I do think it’s only a matter of time before we find biology somewhere that’s not on planet Earth. It’s extremely vain to think we’re alone in a billion-galaxy space, consisting of more stars than there are grains of sand, and billions of planets.”

“I don’t want to meet them,” I say.

“I don’t think you will. Not in our lifetime, anyway.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“For what?” he asks.

“For putting my mind off that thing I thought about when you said September thirteenth.”

There’s a brief silence between us. I’m the first to speak again.

“Paul had an apartment in Paris.”

“Come again?” Arsène takes a seat opposite to me, attentive and alive all of a sudden.

“After he died, I started taking care of the bills. He was good with numbers, so this was normally his jurisdiction. One of the outstanding bills was an overdue rent payment on an apartment on the eighth arrondissement.” I stare into the bottom of the glass.

“The Champs-élysées area,” he supplies.

I nod. “Nice geography. I Google Mapped it.”

Arsène considers my words. I can tell he’s already digesting this information, fitting it into a puzzle in his head.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I hiss out defensively. “His parents are building a house in Provence. I thought he helped them with accommodations, what with all of the back-and-forth.”

Now that I say it out loud, it does sound like a weak excuse. Why would Paul hide such a thing from me? Not to mention, Provence isn’t even close to Paris.

“Hadn’t he told you he made reservations for a hotel in Paris?” he asks. “That time you were supposed to go with him on a romantic trip?”

“Well, yeah.” I munch on my bottom lip.

“Have you ever seen those hotel reservations?”

“Now that I think about it .?.?.” I take another sip. I haven’t. I’d taken Paul’s word for it.

Arsène stares at me, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. I feel stupid enough already.

“He never intended to take me with him.” I let my head slump between my shoulders.

“It’s possible he knew you’d get the job. It was a small production, wasn’t it? He could’ve even pulled a few strings to make it happen. Silver Arrow Capital has a wide range of clients. Some of them are on off-Broadway boards.”

Leaning forward, I bury my face in my hands. My hair spills out on either side of me. Arsène doesn’t say anything. I don’t expect him to. In a way, I even prefer it. I’m tired of empty words. The amount of clichés that are hurled at me is exhausting.

It gets better, kiddo.

This too shall pass.

Have you tried therapy? It did wonders for my niece .?.?.

“Mr.?Corbin?” I hear Cory’s voice. “I just wanted to make sure everything is to your satisfa—”

The words die in his mouth. My head snaps up. I know I’ve been caught. He can see, by my hair and slight frame, that I’m a woman. I stare Cory in the eye. Arsène stands up. He is about to say something. I don’t want to stay to find out how much trouble I’m in. And I’m definitely not spending a night in jail. I grab my messenger bag and bolt out the door, pushing Cory on my way out. His back slams against the wall.

“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter. “I’m so sorry.”

I don’t look back.

Don’t falter when I hear Arsène calling my name.

I continue running, blasting through doors, through corridors, through air, pushing guests and waiters and employees. I spill onto the street and rest my hands over my knees, the sun beating down on my back.

Paul cheated on me.

Chrissy was right. He never did love me.

When I get home, my answering machine is flashing red. Even though I’m a wreck, I decide to listen to the messages. I can always give Ma a call back tomorrow, and hearing a friendly voice might do me good.

I hit the button as I make my way to the dishwasher, then fish out a clean glass and fill it with tap water.

The voice that fills my room doesn’t belong to any of my family members, but it is one I can recognize in my sleep.

“Winnie? Um, yeah. Hey. It’s Rhys.” Pause. Uncomfortable laugh. Something twists in my heart, cracking it open, letting nostalgia trickle in. “We haven’t spoken since I came to Paul’s funeral. I don’t know why I’m calling.” Another pause. “Actually, I do. I do know. I wanted to ask how you’re doing. I know you just landed a huge gig—congratulations, by the way. Didn’t I say you were too big for this town?” His soft laugh rings through my apartment like church bells, bringing me back to the comfortable, to the familiar. “Anyway .?.?. just checking in. Your momma gave me this number. No rush in gettin’ back, I imagine you’re mighty busy over there. Things at home are fine. Normal. Boring.” Another snicker. “Guess I’ve always been kind of boring. That was my problem, huh? So, yeah. Call me. Miss you. Bye.”

The message ends. The glass slips from between my fingers and shatters on the floor noisily.

Rhys Hartnett is wrong. He was never boring. He was always perfect in my eyes. But perfection is something that’s easy to walk away from when you are eighteen, just got an acceptance letter from Juilliard, and the dreams in your head grow wild and long and free like weeds.

Another message rolls through. This time from Lizzy, my sister.

“Hey, Win! It’s been a hot minute, so I thought I’d see what’s going on with you. We love you. We miss you. Kenny wants to say hi to her favorite auntie. Right, Kenny?” A child’s laughter fills my apartment, making my empty stomach clench.

“Hi, Auntie Winnie! Love you! But I love Auntie Georgie too,” Kenny coos.

“Anyway,” Lizzy butts in. “Call us back. Bye!”

There is one last message. This time from Chrissy.

“Oh, and another thing.” She starts straight from the middle of our conversation earlier today. “Not only was Paul an obnoxious human being—not to your face, but behind your back—but he was also terrible in bed, remember?”

I choke out a chuckle. He wasn’t terrible. I’d had better. That’s all I ever told her, one drunken night when Paul was in Europe, ironically probably screwing Grace.

“You told me the best part of your sex life was your foreplay. That’s like enjoying the complimentary bread more than the entrée! I rest my case. Now go open a Tinder account and live your best life. Doctor’s order.”

I pull myself up, deciding the crushed glass could wait until tomorrow to be cleaned. I walk into the hallway. Stop in front of Paul’s office.

Betraying him and opening the door doesn’t seem like such a sinful act anymore, knowing what I know after my conversation with Arsène.

Paul never loved me.

This much I now know to be true. But because a part of me still loves him, I pass by the door and not through it.

One day,I promise myself. But not today.