I slump out of bed and to the kitchen, find my stash of edibles, and pop a gummy into my mouth. It takes effect pretty quickly on my empty stomach, softening the edges on my emotions, dulling my racing mind, and allowing me to doze for the rest of the morning.
When the door buzzer sounds, I snap awake, disoriented. I shuffle toward the entryway, expecting Maral on the threshold, but instead find the doorman, Henry, holding an elaborate bouquet of autumnal flowers.
“Afternoon, Ms. Movilian.”Afternoon?I feel like a teenager—sulkiness and all. “These came for you. Shall I bring them inside?”
I take the vase from his hands, vaguely aware that I haven’t showered or even brushed my teeth yet today. “I can take them, Henry, thanks.”
I bid him a good day and carry the arrangement to the kitchen island, where I pluck out the card.
Congratulations on week 2 on the NYT list! xx, Nadia
Well, shit. The things you miss when you ignore your phone for an entire day.
I can’t help the pang at how differently the news hits compared to last week, when Ryan showed me the email from Meredith. When both of them were still at Woodsworth. When I felt like I was on top of the world—on tour for a successful book and savoring the best sex of my life.
It feels like another era. Has it really only been a week?
I dig my phone out to text a quick thank-you to Nadia, and the number of notifications makes my eyes water. Normally I’d hand this machine of overwhelm to Maral and have her triage the situation. But that’s no longer an option. And further, she’s added to the stress with a dozen texts of her own.
can I come over?
ayn, talk to me.
i’m sorry. please understand.
boyid mernem.
I navigate back to the messages menu, chest pinching when I see Ryan’s name, unbolded and way down the list, our last exchange from two days ago when I was on the train home from Boston.
Jacob’s name, by contrast, is bolded with an unread message whose preview shows a series of emojis that would make me blush if I were anywhere near the mood. I can’t imagine touching another man again. Except the one crowding my mind like he owns the joint.
I turn off the screen, leave the device on the counter, and crawl back into bed.
By Thursday morning, I’m sick of my bed, my apartment, my own maudlin company. I am not built to be alone for long periods of time, and a full day of self-imposed solitary confinement feels like a month.
I pull on my running clothes and venture into the muggy late-September air. My usual route—east to the park and then a loop around the reservoir—doesn’t feel like enough today, so I add some miles through the North Meadow. I set a punishing pace, myloud breaths overpowering the comfort read I plugged into my ears. Still, Michelle Obama’s voice as she recounts her college counselor telling her she wasn’t fit for Princeton, even half heard, is a better companion than my own unfiltered thoughts. I’ve had quite enough of those.
I wind my way back through the park toward home, panting, my legs weak and wobbly.
Henry opens the door as I approach, a broad smile on his face. “You have a visitor,” he tells me. “I been wonderin’ where she’s been! Usually see her every day.”
On the bench near the elevator bank, settled in like she’s been waiting for hours, sits Maral.
Even though seeing her face feels like slipping into fleece pajamas right out of the dryer on a cold day, and even though some part of me wants so deeply to forget the past few days and rejoice in her company, I’m still deep in some feelings, and I can’t be letting them run me ragged with her here.
She stands, raising the strap of her purse to her shoulder. “Hi.”
I nod. “Hi.”
Henry’s head swivels between us before he gets the hint and steps back outside.
“Maral, I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it yet. I’m still processing—”
“I’ve given you enough space. Too much, I think.” She sounds…angry? Or something.
I thought you wanted to give me all the space in the world. Or the country, at least.I can’t control the thought but kick myself for my petulance.
Her tone softens. “Please don’t shut me out.”
