26. Viviana

"See you ma?ana, Margaret." Steve raps his knuckles on my desk as he passes by towards the elevators.

Mikhail sent out a memo two days ago about my official name change, but Steve never checks the memos. He barely knows how his email inbox functions. If it was up to him, we'd all use carrier pigeons and smoke signals to communicate.

Everyone else who did read the memo has taken to my real name with smiles and visible, but unspoken, confusion.

I fight an eye roll and wave. "Later, Steve."

Mikhail's office is already empty. He left half an hour ago without a word to me. Walked right past my desk like I wasn't even there. Like I was a piece of furniture in the corner instead of his wife and the mother of his child.

On one hand, I'm glad he isn't spouting off about our marriage. It's not real and I don't want people to think I was some spy working on the inside to help my husband take over the company. That wouldn't be good for office morale.

On the other hand, being called into Mikhail's office fifteen minutes after my explosion to explain the quirks of Mr. Fredrickson's office phone was difficult with the enormous elephant in the room.

If you want the phone to connect, you have to pick up the receiver and then—Oh dear, would you look at that? The elephant shit on the desk again. Anyway, about that phone?—

I leave right at five, turning off the light in Mikhail's office as I go.

Jackie is still down at the front desk. She's swapping her heels for a pair of walking shoes. She looks up as my own heels click past.

"Hey, Marg—er, Viviana." She chuckles awkwardly. "That's going to take some getting used to. Are you about to brave the subway in heels?"

I point to the black car idling outside the double doors. "Mr. Novikov assigned me a driver."

It's the sanitized version. Telling her my new boss is also my new husband and the father of my child seems like the textbook definition of an "overshare."

She whistles. "That's nice. New guy is sparing no expense. Is he treating you better than Mr. Fredrickson?"

Well, it depends. Mr. Fredrickson never put me up in a bonafide mansion or gave me a personal driver or more g-spot orgasms than I knew what to do with.

Then again, Mr. Fredrickson also never kidnapped me and my son from our home and then gave me emotional whiplash until I couldn't decide whether I hated him for being cruel or for making me want him anyway.

"In some ways," I conclude with a smile. "If you ever want a ride, just let me know. Your place is on the way to?—"

My old apartment.

The apartment I do not live in anymore and may never return to.

Before I need to finish the sentence, Jackie waves me away. "It's okay; I'm actually headed to my first tap class today. It's in the opposite direction."

"Wow! Tap dancing. That sounds fun."

"Probably not." She lugs her duffel bag over her shoulder. "My therapist suggested I ‘try new things.' Embarrassing myself in front of other adults isn't new for me, but doing it while wearing tap shoes is."

Jackie and I walk out together. I wave as she heads in the direction of the train station and then climb into the back seat of the waiting car.

"Home?" Pyotr asks.

Home is wherever Dante is. But I also feel a tug towards the apartment where we spent the last few years.

"Actually, I want to make a stop," I tell him. "There's something I need at my old apartment. You know where it is?"

Pyotr stiffens. "I know where it is, but we don't have a guard with us. Anatoly should be here if you're getting out of the car."

"I was out of the car all day and Anatoly wasn't with me," I point out. "For the last half-hour, Mikhail wasn't in the building, either. I think I can handle walking up to my own apartment for a few minutes. I'll be quick."

Pyotr seems torn, his hands drumming on the wheel while he thinks.

"I thought transportation was your job," I remind him. "Wherever I want to go, it's your job to take me there, right?"

I feel bad for putting Pyotr in a weird spot, but luckily, any hint that he might not be fulfilling his duties to the highest caliber is all it takes to kick him into gear. He shifts the car into drive and gets me to my apartment faster than I thought was possible.

"I'll be in and out," I promise as I slam the door closed and cross the cracked sidewalk.

Really, I'm not even sure why I'm going in at all. I guess, after the day I had, being somewhere familiar sounds nice.

My mailbox is overflowing. It's mostly coupons and weekly deals for the grocery store around the corner, but there are a few overdue bills in there. I need to remember to forward my mail to the mansion. I don't think I'll be moving out anytime soon.

I tuck the stack under my arm and climb the three flights of stairs up to my floor.

There are four different door hangers for the takeout place across the street on the doorknob. Also a note taped to the frame.

Give me a knock when you're back. —T

I rip the note down and duck inside. I don't have the bandwidth to explain this hot garbage heap of a situation to Tommy today. Maybe ever.

The apartment smells musty, the same way it smelled when Dante and I first moved in. We lived here for years, but it only took a few days to revert to its former state. I try not to take the betrayal personally and dump the mail on the counter.

I crack open the fridge and see a bag of shredded lettuce that has liquified on the top shelf. And one look at the milk is enough to tell me it's hours away from growing legs and claiming squatter's rights.

I could clean it all out… but why? I won't be back here again.

The conversation with Dante this morning sealed that fate. He likes Mikhail. He's on his way to loving Mikhail. Even if I'd rather live in my small apartment with my rotting lettuce, I have to do what's right for Dante.

I close the door and face the apartment. The little shoes tossed under our two-person dining room table. The one-armed Spiderman action figure that is doing a face-down plank on the shelf next to the television. All the little bits and bobs that made up our everyday lives.

It's just like it always was, except… I can see the cracks now, too.

The way the sole of Dante's shoes are tearing away at the toe. He outgrew them a month ago, but I was trying to make them stretch as far as they could.

And the shelf next to the television is bowing under the weight of the single action figure. I saved the water-damaged cabinet from the curb a year ago and meant to fill it with picture books for Dante, but there never seemed to be time. After I got off, the evenings were a mad dash of dinner, bath, and bedtime.

The hard truth is, I've spent more quality time with my son over the last few days than I have in months. Years, maybe. Because instead of every second being filled with rush and panic and hurry up, we can breathe.

We can be.

This apartment represents a lot for me. It's the first place that was ever truly mine.

But that doesn't make it perfect. I walk the rooms one more time, stashing a few things in my purse as I go—Dante's favorite moon nightlight, a few more pictures from the walls.

"You were good to us," I whisper as I make my way to the door. It feels ridiculous to talk to an apartment, but it also feels right.

I step onto the landing and pull the door closed behind me just as the door across the hall opens.

"Margaret?"

I'm tempted to sprint down the stairs and save both Tommy and myself this awkward encounter. But I take a deep breath and turn to face him. "Hi, Tommy."

He blinks like he didn't expect to ever see me again. "Where have you been? You disappeared. Your mail backed up downstairs. I even left a message with the landlord about you. He never got back to me."

"No surprise there. He has an unread message in his inbox about my leaky bathroom sink from three years ago."

"Where have you been?" Tommy asks again, ignoring my attempt to lighten the conversation. "Is everything okay?"

Yes.

And no.

But also yes.

I settle on a shrug. "I'm okay."

He runs a hand through his hair, a deep crease between his brows. "Is this about the other day? I know I kind of jumped you in the hallway when I asked about the date. I didn't mean it to be so aggressive. I hope you didn't feel cornered. Because if I scared you, I think I'd jump off the roof—Oh my God, that wasn't a threat. I won't really jump. It's just?—"

I grab Tommy's arm and try hard to smile. "This isn't about you. Or the date. You did a nice job asking me out. I didn't feel threatened."

I didn't feel anything, actually.

Being around Tommy is the exact opposite of being with Mikhail.

Around Mikhail, I feel everything whether I want to or not. It's like I'm in an emotional amplifier. Everything feels heightened. Tommy is a damper.

"Thank God." He sighs in obvious relief. "But if this wasn't about me, then what was it about? You've never even gone on vacation before. Not that I keep tabs on you, but you know what I mean."

"I've had some… family matters come up." Talk about boiling down and sanitizing the big, dirty truth. "The last few days have been hectic."

"Do you need to talk about it? People have told me I'm a good listener. I know because I heard them tell me… since I'm such a good listener." He shakes his head. "I swear I won't tell any more terrible jokes on the date. Er—not a date. Just coffee?"

I just said goodbye to my old apartment; I should say goodbye to Tommy, too. He deserves that much.

He also deserves the truth.

"I could grab coffee." I raise my left hand slowly and tuck my hair behind my ear. I watch Tommy's eyes widen as he clocks my truly heinous wedding ring. "As friends."

"Wow. It really has been a hectic couple days for you," he breathes.

"You have no idea."

He sticks out his elbow and gestures to the stairs. "I'd love to hear all about it."

I slip my arm through his and let him lead me down the stairs.

I meet Pyotr's eyes through the windshield of the car for only a second before Tommy and I turn and walk in the other direction.

I'm going out with Tommy because it sounds fun and because he deserves some kind of explanation after three years of being neighbors. But some small, petty part of me hopes Pyotr will tell Mikhail about this.

An even smaller, pettier part of me hopes it will tear him up inside.