She was coming out of a gallery with a portfolio case slung over her shoulder. No smile this time, just the focused expression of someone moving through her day, rebuilding the architecture of a life that had shifted under her feet. She looked good, though. Steady. The kind of woman who absorbed a blow and kept walking.
I should have kept going. Should have ducked into a doorway or suddenly become fascinated by a window display. Instead, Ifroze on the sidewalk, watching her adjust her scarf against the wind, and felt something cold settle in my chest.
She was beautiful. Not in an obvious way, not magazine-cover perfect, but in a way that mattered more. Confident, comfortable in her own skin, the kind of woman who knew what she wanted and went after it. Her dark hair was windblown yet she didn’t seem to care. Her coat was practical, boots sensible, her whole presence suggesting someone who had better things to do than worry about appearances.
No wonder Jack had started dating her. No wonder he’d nearly moved on.
Rebecca glanced across the street, a casual sweep, the kind of look you give your surroundings when you’re waiting to cross, and spotted me.
Recognition. A flicker of something complicated. Then she lifted her chin slightly and crossed the street toward me.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
“Maggie.” She stopped in front of me, portfolio case bumping against her hip. Not a question. Just my name, spoken with the careful neutrality of someone who’d already decided how this conversation would go.
“Rebecca. Hi.” My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to.
She studied me for a moment, the way a photographer studies a subject, not with hostility, but with a kind of professional assessment. Measuring. Deciding.
“He’s in New York,” she said. “I heard through a mutual friend. The Times.”
“Yeah. He left this morning.”
“Good for him.” She said it simply, and I couldn’t tell if she meant it or if the simplicity was its own kind of armor. “He’s been wanting that for a long time.”
An awkward silence bloomed between us. Two women on a Newbury Street sidewalk, the wind snapping at their coats, connected by a man who wasn’t there.
“I want you to know,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could second-guess them, “that I’m sorry. For how things happened. You didn’t deserve?—”
“Don’t.” Rebecca held up a hand, not unkindly. “I appreciate the impulse, but please don’t apologize to me for being the person he chose. That’s worse than not apologizing at all.”
I closed my mouth.
“He was honest with me,” she said. “That night at dinner. He sat across from me and told me the truth, which is more than most men would do. I respect that about him. I respected it even while I was hating it.” A ghost of a smile. “Three weeks. That’s all we had. Not enough time to build anything real, but enough to know what we might have built. And that’s the part that stings.”
“Rebecca—”
“I’m fine.” The smile solidified into something more definite. “I am. I have a gallery showing next month, and a commission from a magazine, and a life that doesn’t depend on Jack choosing me. I just—” She paused, adjusted the portfolio strap on her shoulder. “I wanted to say something to you, and I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance.”
I braced myself.
“Don’t waste it.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “Whatever it cost to get here, whatever it cost him, whatever it cost me, don’t you dare waste it. Be the person he thinks you are. Because he ended something good for thepossibilityof something better, and if you turn out to be just another version of the woman who kept pushing him away?—”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.
“I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”
“Good.” She stepped back. “I should go. I have a meeting with a curator.” She looked at me one more time, and I saw it clearly now, not anger, not even sadness, but the exhaustion of someone who’d processed a loss and come out the other side. “Good luck, Maggie.”
She walked away, portfolio case swinging against her hip, and I stood there on the sidewalk feeling the weight of a debt I could never repay. Not just to Rebecca, but to all the people whose lives were shifting and changing because I’d been selfish enough to want a second chance.
Don’t waste it.
I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Not after what it had cost.
The wind picked up as I pulled my coat tighter and headed for the T, the cassette tape heavy in my pocket, Rebecca’s words heavy in my chest.
Diane was getting ready when I got home, her hair in hot rollers, mascara wand in hand, but she stopped when she saw my face.
