She rolls her eyes, then takes a big breath and smiles. "You must let me know when you're back, so you can see our new house."
I bite back the sigh and smile as I nod. "I'd love to."
We say goodbye after an hour, and for the rest of the day, New York starts to feel like a trick mirror. Everything looks the same, but nothing is.
He's here, somewhere, breathing the same air, brushing against the same strangers, maybe standing at the same crosswalk I'm waiting at now.
The thought doesn't comfort me—it empties me.
Mara's words loop in my head.It's a boy.
Ben has a beautiful boy. They live in New York now.
I wonder how many falls I could have lived with him if I'd been braver? If love didn't demand the kind of virtue that leaves you alone in the end?
I tell myself I could just ask him how he is, like his friend, but who am I kidding? There's no way we could ever go back to being friends.
So I shake my head, forcing my steps forward. I shouldn't want to know. Knowing would unmake the small peace I've been pretending to have.
Keep moving, Emma. That's what you promised yourself: forward motion, clean breaks, no ghosts. Life's been treating you pretty well lately.
?
The night is here, and I'm on stage, squinting. The lightsswallow the audience, but I see a sea of faces, every seat full, every hand holding my book.My book.Even Isabella, the host, wears a tee with the cover printed across the front. My heart is thudding. Thudding. Heavy in my chest.
"We know it's fiction," she asks, leaning closer. "But was it perhaps inspired by your life?"
And there it is—the landmine question.
For a flash, I see Richard: the fight, the divorce, the threats, the nine months of having my lawyer on the line, all of it like a knife, and my stomach twists.
But then—
Ben.
Ben's face in my palms while he was sleeping, Ben's hair falling over his face before kissing me, Ben's eyes that lit up like fire when the sun hit them right.
"Wait, that came out wrong," Isabella jumps in, saving me from my memories. "All we want to know is—Damien. Is he real?"
I breathe out an aching laugh. "Oh yeah. He's real. Very real. He's stuck in my head, though. Sorry, ladies."
Grin. Wink. Half the room lets out a tiny theatrical sigh, just like I hoped.
"Damn it. That's not what we wanted to hear," Isabella says, pretending to be upset.
Someone in the back clears their throat loudly and my eyes shoot there for a second, even though I can't see anyone. My fingers start fidgeting with the book in my lap.
Isabella clocks it and spares me the misery, her voice soft. "Well, would you be kind enough to read us an excerpt from your book?"
Nerves punch me in the gut.
"Sure," I manage and adjust myself in the chair, the kind that's really just me trying to anchor myself. Open the cover, take a deep breath that smells of apocalypse and triumph all at once, and start.
"Once, there was a very special person in my life. Dangerous, too. Not because he'd intentionally hurt anyone, but because the world was always a little dimmer next to him..."
I'm reading on autopilot, the room holding its breath as I keep breaking and collecting myself over and over, and when I finish with a definitive thud, there's an enormous applause I wasn't really expecting, swelling like a wave carrying me.
It hits me square in the chest and I clap too because that's what you do when something ends.
