“Everyone assumed I was coming. Maggie didn’t correct them. I just… went along with it.”
Logan snorted. “That’s incredible. Honestly. Think of it this way, a destination weekend surrounded by people disgustingly in love… It’s a recipe for making Maggie fall right back into your arms if you play it right.”
Gwen groaned. “That wasn’t my plan.”
“Oh, please. It’s genius. Vacation brain plus nostalgia plus alcohol? All you need is one heartfelt slow dance or near-death gambling experience, and she’ll be halfway to proposing again.”
Gwen laughed, a short, tired sound. “You’re ridiculous.”
Logan sighed. “You’re still in love with your wife. Just own it. Have fun. Look good. Be competent. Don’t get heatstroke. Maybe wear a tank top. You’ll be fine.”
Gwen let her eyes wander back to the church steeple. “She doesn’t want to talk about anything real. Every time we get close, even in therapy, she just shuts the door.”
“That’s why you’re going where real life doesn’t exist, so you might actually get somewhere.”
Gwen kicked at a loose pebble. “I don’t want to manipulate her.”
“You’re not. You’re just showing her a different way. Big difference.”
“When did you start therapy?” Gwen teased.
“I watch a lot of TV,” Logan said. “And I’m very wise. But really, you don’t have to manipulate her into realizing that you’re meant to be together. You just have to remind her why she chose you in the first place.”
Gwen wasn’t sure she agreed. But the part of her that wanted Maggie to say something, do something — anything — was louder than the part that wanted to take the high road.
She glanced up at the firm’s building again. Its sterile exterior glared back at her.
“Okay,” she said. “Then I guess I’m going to Vegas.”
“Damn right you are,” Logan said, catching her up on his day and recent drama with his own work. The familiarity of hearing about something completely apart from her felt nice. Then, suddenly, he gasped. “I think I just saw a pigeon pickpocket someone.”
“Stay vigilant,” Gwen joked. “Okay, I’ve got to go back in.” They said their quick goodbyes and Gwen hung up, still smiling, and headed back toward the revolving glass door.
Maybe Logan was onto something. Not with pickpocketing pigeons, but with Vegas being a new chance to prove to Maggie that their marriage was still a gamble worth taking.
CHAPTER 5
Maggie
The suitcase layopen on the bed, half-full and judgmental. Maggie stood at its edge with a suit vest in one hand and a pair of jeans in the other, neither feeling like the right choice. Vegas felt too loud for linen, too synthetic for cotton. Or maybe she just didn’t want to go now.
Rosie burst in, a whirlwind in mismatched pajamas. “Can I have a snack that isn’t a snack but is still a treat?”
Maggie squinted. “So… dessert?”
“No,” Rosie said solemnly. “Something crunchy and special.”
“We could have popcorn?” Maggie offered, remembering the bag of Smartfood she’d bought yesterday. “There’s some in the pantry.”
Rosie lit up. “Popcorn! Yes!”
Maggie watched her bounce back down the hall, then looked at her phone. 3:08 p.m. The afternoon sun streamed through the blinds, lighting up the dust she hadn’t had the energy to care about. She sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring the accusatory huff of the suitcase.
When Rosie had first asked why Mommy didn’t sleep in Maggie’s bed anymore, Maggie had said something about snoring. Rosie nodded solemnly, as though she understood. The boys shrugged it off. Kids accepted things adults choked on.
She reached into her dresser and pulled out an old Rice University hoodie. The hem was fraying, one sleeve scarred by a mysterious bleach mark, but it still smelled faintly of detergent and stress. She’d gone to grad school intending to be on the research side of things rather than the teaching side. Grad school had been a blur of gallery lectures and Claude Cahun research, coffee-fueled nights, and Gwen appearing like an architectural thesis come to life.
Gwen had been all sharp lines and quiet ambition. They’d met at a party thrown by one of Maggie’s seminar friends. Maggie spilled cheap red wine, and Gwen wordlessly handed her a napkin. That was the whole meet-cute. Not fireworks. Just a steady hand and a look that said, “I can help.”
