"Well. Aren't we a pair of criers today?" she says.
The conversation stays with me as I cook my lunch and eat it in silence. She had always been there. No boarding schools, no cold silences. Listening to every thought I had.
My phone chimes again. I'm expecting a picture of bohemian flower arrangements, and knowing Aiyana, perhaps with white lotuses in the center to represent the female sex. That's not what I get.
Nadine has sent me a selfie. Her braids are a mess and her eyes are smudgy with mascara. Her smile is also huge, a comforter pulled up to her neck. She's in bed.
She's written five words. So I did a thing.
I type back.
Cecilia: Did you just wake up? I'm so jealous of the life of artists.
Nadine: I did. And think, Cece. Is this my comforter???
Cecilia: Oh my god. You're at Jake's!!! You're in his bed!
Nadine: Yeeees.
Cecilia: What! Judging from your smile I should say congrats, so congrats! How was it?
Nadine: Unreal. Can we have brunch next week, please please please? I have so much to tell you.
Cecilia: Clearly! And yes!
Nadine: I thought he was too similar to me, but he's not. He's amazing. He understands my art and we have these long debates about Cubism and the future of mixed media and it's so hot? Who knew? Also I saw his closet and it wasn't messy at all.
I laugh. She's infatuated, and I couldn't be happier. Not when he's as enamored by her.
Cecilia: People can surprise you. I'm happy for you. Get your ass up and make him some abstract art eggs.
Nadine: How's your hubby? Falling for him yet?
Cecilia: I'm very much afraid the answer is no… but only because I've already fallen.
There's no response, so I guess Jake woke up. I smile at the picture of her grinning from ear to ear on my phone. I can't think of anyone who deserves love more than her, after years of working so hard and dating only weirdos.
I recognize her smile… because that's me, too.
I can't figure out when it started, what moment things shifted inside me, but when I look back it feels like it was always there. A thrumming in my body when I'd see him striding down the hallway at work. Pride when he'd negotiated and strong-armed, and I'd be the one to come in with his memos. It had been buried deep at times, fleeting and ephemeral. But it had been there.
Now I've seen the other sides to him, the ones he keeps hidden. The tortured side, the caring, the confident. The silly and the surprisingly sentimental. The one that holds me tight at night and breathes in the scent of my hair like it's more valuable to him than air.
I want this to be a real marriage. I want it so much my heart aches with it. Is that so crazy? After everything we've done together?
The front door rings. I startle from my desk and wait a moment, but then it rings again. Bonnie isn't in.
I run down the stairs in my slippers and answer. "Hello?"
"Hello, ma'am. We have a delivery in the lobby for Mr. St. Clair that requires a signature. Is he available?"
"I'm afraid he's at work. Where's the delivery from?"
"A law firm, ma'am."
"I can sign for him." My voice snaps into professionalism. How many times had I done this for him when I was his assistant? "You're welcome to send the courier up."
The concierge breathes a sigh of relief. "Excellent, Mrs. St. Clair. She will be outside your door in a minute. Would you like a longer delay?"
I look down at my yoga pants. "No, that's okay. Thank you."
The courier is hesitant outside of our door, but I shake away her concerns. "I'm Victor's wife," I say. "I'll make sure they get to him."
"All right, ma'am," she says. The manila envelope she's clutching is thin.
I sign my name with a flourish on the paper and smile at her. "Thank you. We appreciate it."
"Of course, ma'am. Have a good day."
"You too, miss."
The door shuts behind her and I stand in the hallway, envelope in hand. I flip it over. It's from his lawyers, Irving and Hardmann. I've seen dozens of these envelopes before. They always contain important documents for his various business acquisitions, investments, hirings.
It had been express-delivered here, which means it must be urgent. Had they sent it to the wrong address? It's only two p. m. and Victor won't be home for hours yet.
The decision is split-second. I've opened his mail a hundred times before. I've sorted and organized it for him, I've scanned it for him when he's been on business trips. This is no different.
I open the seal with careful fingers and pull out the document inside.
The headline is in bold, black font, and falls like a scythe.
Petition for Divorce.
Below, already printed in fine font, are our names.
Victor St. Clair and Cecilia Myers.
I follow the hostess in a numb daze. Around us, people sit at long oak tables, talk mingling into a low-level chatter. Paper lanterns hang from beams in the ceiling. It's cozy.
I can't appreciate any of it.
Victor walks behind me. His presence is solid, real, ever-present… and yet I can't look at him. I had resealed the document and put it on his desk. He asked about it when he came home. "On your desk," I'd said.
"Thank you," he'd replied, face a mask. As if the document inside isn't premature, isn't an end to us.
My heart feels twice its normal size, beating so hard it might break out of my chest. He brought his briefcase tonight. Did he bring the papers? Is that why he wants to have dinner?
He's going to talk about our divorce. About how this has gotten too complicated, too messy. We mixed business and pleasure and we shouldn't have. The end is coming.