CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO WINNIE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

WINNIE

New York is cool and splendid in a dozen shades of gray and blue as I cab it from LaGuardia Airport into the city.

Fall has conquered every inch of Manhattan. The trees are naked, tall, the branches curling into themselves, shriveling from the frost.

My first stop is my apartment. My apartment, not Paul’s. I stand and stare at it for a few minutes, hands balled over my hips, taking inventory one last time.

Then I grab all the junk mail from my mailbox, open a trash bag, and throw everything inside.

Possessed by energy I haven’t had in forever, I proceed to my fridge, throw it open, and yank out all Paul’s yogurts. His pickle jar. His favorite smoothies. Moon cakes. All gone. I shove my sleeves up my elbows and scrub the fridge clean. The residue of expired food assaults my nostrils, sour and lingering. I don’t stop until it’s spotless, laughing soundlessly when I remember how I’d given up on using the fridge so I wouldn’t have to deal with the stench of the food.

Then I move on to the rolled newspapers I kept for him.

He is not coming back. Even if he did, in another life, in another universe—he can buy his own darn newspaper. The only news flash he needs is this: he was a bastard who tried to kiss my sister and impregnated another woman while we were married.

All the papers go to recycling. I have to make three separate trips downstairs before they’re all gone, but it’s worth it.

Next, I throw Paul’s office door open. All his files go into the shredder. His computer, his monitors, I pack up to be donated to a charity. I don’t want any proof of the fact this man ever lived here. Because he didn’t. Not really.

It takes me six hours to get the apartment in order and completely Paul-less. By the time I’m done, I’m exhausted. I drag myself into the shower and let the scorching water hit my skin. When I get out, I choose a nice dress and put some makeup on.

I’m just putting my lipstick back into my makeup bag when the doorbell rings. I smile at the mirror, knowing who it is, and walk briskly down the hallway. The place is spotless. Clean, tidy, and completely me. It smells of the cinnamon-and-vanilla candle I lit up earlier, a scent Paul never liked—cinnamon made him nauseous—and open the door.

Arya stands on the other side of it, holding Louie, who is not so tiny anymore.

I immediately reach to take him from her, and he gurgles happily, nestled in my arms. The weight of him is delicious, and I laugh when he shoves his chubby fingers into my mouth.

“Louie, keep your hands to yourself.” Arya tugs her scarf free and flings it over my couch. “I have a feeling I’ll need to say those words a lot, considering his daddy’s success with the ladies before we got together.”

“Come on in.” I laugh, stepping aside so she can enter.

When she walks inside, I realize she isn’t alone. Chrissy is here, too, marching with her signature fat-burning-tea tumbler and electric cigarette in hand.

“I thought you were in Los Angeles with your boyfriend.” I snatch her into a quick hug before she escapes.

“Oh, I was.” She waves me off, plopping onto the couch. “But then Arya told me you were coming back, and I couldn’t help myself. Especially when I heard the reason for your arrival. Now, look at this place. It’s almost as though Paul’s never lived here!”

The three of us look around in amazement while Louie wiggles, trying to break free and roam the place.

“It was time,” I say.

“I’m really proud of you.” Arya gathers me into a squeeze. “For all you did today, and all you’re about to do. Now, hand me my bundle of booger, please. I have something I need to give you.”

I hand Louie back to her, albeit reluctantly, then open my palm between us as she fishes for the thing I asked for in her purse.

“Are you sure Christian is not going to mind? About you giving this to me, I mean?” I ask. It’s a violation of privacy and possession.

Arya lets out a laugh. “Oh, he’ll mind. I’ll never hear the end of it. But can he really be mad at me for long? I don’t think so. Besides, once he understands what’s at stake, he’ll be delighted. Trust me.” She curls my fingers around the key. “The doorman’s name is Alfred. If he gives you trouble, tell him to call me.”

And just like that, I have the key to Arsène’s apartment.

Now all I need is to unlock his heart.

Of course I wanted Arsène to be home when I arrived in New York. But as soon as I landed and called Arya to let her know I’d arrived, she told me that Arsène mentioned to Christian that he’d be in London until late tonight to sign off on an agreement selling Calypso Hall.

A pinch of sorrow squeezed at my belly. Calypso Hall is in need of some TLC, and it’s true it wasn’t always a thriving establishment, but it holds so much charm. There’s beauty to it. Something I cannot put my finger on. And besides, it belonged to his mother. To Patrice. His very last piece of her. The real her.

But I do want to be here, waiting for him, when he arrives back from London. Mainly because I remember him once saying that no one’s ever waited at home for him. He was always a lone star, moving in the dark, vast universe.

Using the key Arya gave me, I push the door to his apartment open. A rush of pleasure floods me. It smells just like him. That unique Arsène scent that makes my knees weak.

His apartment looks exactly the same way it did the last time I was here.

Glancing at my phone, I realize I have a few more hours to burn until he arrives. I decide to give myself a tour of the place. Arsène never did, and seeing as last time we parted ways he told me he wanted me, I find it hard to believe he’d take issue with it.

First, I go back to the guest room where he held me. The linen is pressed, and the room is neatly organized. Like I’ve never been there. I don’t know what I was expecting .?.?. for the bed to be unmade, the way we’d left it? This is not Arsène’s style. I amble through the hallway. Walk into the bathroom. Open the cabinets, my ears heating at my own brazenness. All he has there are Band-Aids, Tylenol, and some TUMS.

When I reach his bedroom, I halt. My hand is on the doorknob. There’s an irrational part of me that’s afraid I’m going to find him there with someone else. Why, I don’t know. It is obvious he is not here. Arya told me he went to meet a pompous colleague of his who went to Andrew Dexter Academy with him.

But ever since Paul .?.?.

No. Screw Paul. You’ve moved on. You’re not going to let what happened in the past dictate your future anymore.

I shove the door open. The second I do, all the oxygen leaves my lungs.

Because it is here.

Full size and hung on his wall. Where the TV should be. Right in front of his bed. And it’s just as magnificent as I remember it to be.

The Seagull’s poster.

The huge one that got magically “lost” all those months ago. With the close-up of my face.

It was Arsène who took it. Who stole it. Who then tampered with the cameras and took the damning footage of himself seizing the thing.

My face stares back at me. I look tranquil .?.?. maybe even a little dreamy.

But it can’t be here. It can’t be him. The poster was taken so early in our relationship—or whatever that was that started between us.

This is .?.?. how?

His words from the last time I saw him, on my porch, haunt me now.

My need to be near you and next to you at all times had stopped being about Grace and started being about you very, very early. Since you ran out of the New Amsterdam after knocking poor Cory to the ground.

He wasn’t lying. He really did like me from the get-go.

I walk over to the poster and plaster one hand against my printed face. Something wet and weird caresses my cheek. I reach with my hand to wipe it, examining the tip of my finger to find a perfectly round, see-through, salty tear staring back at me.

I’m crying.

I’m crying!

I’m no longer cursed or numb or incapable of fully feeling.

The waterworks start right away. Loud, childish wails rip from my chest and through my mouth. I cry for the entire year that I couldn’t. Cry for Paul’s death. For what he did to me. For Grace. For what she did to Arsène. For losing my role of Nina. For gaining perspective. For Rhys. For Arsène, for hiding for decades behind a wall of erudition and wit.

Most of all, I cry for myself. But shockingly, these are not tears of despair or self-pity, but of relief.

I feel courageous. Stronger than I’ve ever been. And so incredibly hopeful.

I’ve been through hell and walked through fire, only to come out the other side of it, scarred and bruised, but stronger than ever.

I burn for you,he said. And I’m ready to burn right back for him.

I fall into Arsène’s bed and cry and cry and cry for hours.

Cry until I fall asleep in the comfort of the scent of the man I love.