I close the journal. Press it against my chest like I'm trying to absorb my mother's wisdom through proximity.
She tried to show me. For twenty-four years, she showed me what partnership without possession looked like. And I still chose Gabriel. Still mistook his control for strength, his isolation tactics for devotion, his demands for care.
I didn't recognize the counterfeit because it was wrapped in expensive paper.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from the unknown number—Lucien:I'm hosting a small dinner next Friday. Eight guests. Intimate conversation, excellent wine, no obligations. I think you'd find the company stimulating. Will you join us?
A dinner. Eight people. Lucien Armitage's idea of "intimate conversation" probably involves the kind of networking that makes my skin itch. But it's also an offer. Another thread connecting me to a world that isn't just my apartment and the foundation office and Dr. Cross's therapy room.
I type:What time?
His response:7 PM. I'll send a car at 6:45. And Lana? This time, stay. Let yourself be uncomfortable. That's where the interesting discoveries happen.
Let yourself be uncomfortable.
Like the exhibition wasn't uncomfortable enough. Like standing in front ofThe Dropand feeling my memory splinter into fragments wasn't the exact level of discomfort I've been trying to avoid.
But maybe that's the problem. Maybe avoiding discomfort is just another form of disappearing.
I text back:I'll be there.
Then I set down my phone, return the journal to its box, and finally get dressed for bed. Cotton t-shirt, sleep shorts, theunsexy comfort of clothes chosen for me instead of someone else's gaze. I brush my teeth, take my sleeping pill, and turn off the lights.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling and count rotations of the fan. Eighty-seven rotations until my pulse normalizes. But tonight the counting doesn't work. My mind keeps circling back to the exhibition, to Elias Voss asking what I saw in the photograph, to the way I answered him with something closer to truth than I've offered anyone.
I see the last moment before everything changed. When you still think you might survive intact.
Elias had understood. I could see it in his face—recognition, not judgment. Like he knew what it meant to stand on an edge and wonder if you'd survive the fall.
Then Lucien appeared and the moment shattered. Whatever honesty I'd allowed myself evaporated under his calculating assessment. The way he looked between Elias and me like he was collecting data, measuring variables, and determining value.
Men like Lucien don't do anything without purpose. The invitation to the exhibition was calculated. The follow-up texts were strategic. The dinner invitation is the next move in whatever game he's playing.
And I'm going anyway.
Because the alternative is this apartment, this isolation, this careful reconstruction of a self I don't recognize. Because uncomfortable is at least honest. Because maybe if I keep putting myself in situations where I have to pretend to be human, eventually the performance will become real.
Sleep comes in fragments. I dream about the terrace again, but this time the details are different. Gabriel's handson my shoulders, yes. The rain, the wind, the void beyond the railing, yes. But this time, when his foot slips, I see my hands clearly. They're pressed against his chest. And I can't tell if they're pushing or bracing, saving or destroying.
I wake at 2:53 AM, palms pressed against the mattress, counting heartbeats until the panic recedes. One hundred and twelve beats. I'm getting worse at this, not better.
The rest of the night passes in that liminal space between waking and sleeping where memories and dreams blur together. By the time morning arrives with its unforgiving light, I'm exhausted but functional. The performance must go on.
I shower, dress in clothes that signal competence—gray slacks, white blouse, and minimal jewelry. I check my phone. Three texts from Solange asking about yesterday, one from Dr. Cross confirming our Friday appointment, and one more from Lucien Armitage's unknown number:Looking forward to Friday. Wear whatever makes you feel powerful.
Wear whatever makes you feel powerful.
I don't own anything that makes me feel powerful. I own widow's clothes and foundation-appropriate business wear and the remnants of Gabriel's idea of how his wife should dress. Power isn't in my wardrobe. It's in the choices I make about whether to show up at all.
But I will show up. To the dinner, to therapy, to the foundation. I'll show up and act like I’m recovering until the performance becomes truth or I break trying.
The foundation office is fifteen minutes by subway. I arrive at 9 AM to find Solange already there, coffee brewing, grant applications spread across her desk like a paper glacier.
We're always chasing funding—submitting proposals to established foundations, applying for state and federal grants,courting corporate sponsors. Gabriel's money launched us, but no nonprofit survives on a single source. We need renewable funding streams if we're going to help survivors long-term.
She looks up when I enter and studies my face with the intensity of someone who knows how to read the truth beneath a well-crafted performance. "You look like hell."
"Good morning to you too."
