My face flushes. Does that mean he also remembers when he stuck his thumb in my mouth in the basement of the bookstore?
“I think those books are still at my parents’ house. After graduation, I took a stab as an editorial assistant at a publishing house, but I felt like an impostor. Actually, it was Emme’s dad who convinced me to quit and try to make the photography thing work.” Before he can ask, I say, “We divorced six years ago.”
Reid is leaning forward across the table, a crease between his brows. I haven’t forgotten how good it feels to be on the receiving end of his attention, and I feel a desire to pick up my camera and capture this scene—how the dancing flame on the table throws delicate shadows across his features, sending a single perfect starburst of light into the center of his amber-flecked eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Reid says. “What happened there? With the marriage?”
“Kind of a classic he-was-married-to-his-work situation, though the real red flag was that I was starting to dread the moment he walked through the door. We’d drifted apart so much that I hardly knew who he was anymore, and honestly, I wasn’t that interested in figuring out who the new version was. And he certainly wasn’t interested in me.” I stop myself, caught off guard by my uncharacteristic candor.YouknewReid, you don’tknowReid, I remind myself. I sigh, drain the last of my wine.“He wasn’t cut out to be a husband, but he tries to be a good dad.”
Reid tops up our glasses. “Hetries?”
I hesitate for a moment, unsure how deeply I want to get into this right now. So I just say, “James is a trauma surgeon. He has a habit of putting his work above parenting. Last weekend, there was a car crash on the LIE, and he canceled plans he’d made with Emme to see a Broadway show. When lives are on the line, it’s hard to argue—he always has the moral high ground. But he’s notthe onlytrauma surgeon in New York City.”
Reid shakes his head. “Can’t imagine bailing on Gracie.” Then he shrugs. “That said, I’m certainly not saving lives with my work.”
I nod. “Most of us aren’t. So I struggle with this push and pull with him. It feels unethical—fucked—to fault the guy for literally saving lives. But at the same time... there’s a bit of a god complex, and the way Emme’s face falls when her dad blows her off is seared into my brain.”
“Yeah, one of my main goals in life is to make Gracienotmake that face whenever possible. I will never forget the time I wouldn’t let her get a pet goldfish and she looked at me like... I don’t know. Like I’d squashed it with my bare hands in front of her. It’s tricky. You want to make sure they’re prepared for the world without crushing their spirit.”
“I’m still trying to figure out that dance between protection and... overprotection.” I look down and realize my glass is almost empty again.
“It seems like you’ve found the right balance with Emme.”
A rush of warmth floods in my chest. A compliment from Reid lands harder than most.
“Did you get her the goldfish?” I ask.
“I got her three.”
“Three goldfish!”
“Leonardo, Donatello, and Michelangelo.”
“As in the Renaissance artists?”
“As in the Ninja Turtles.”
“What about Raphael?”
He leans over the table. It’s a thrill to be this close to him, to smell the musk of his shirt, to see the deeper tan along his nose and cheeks.
“Gracie,” he drops his voice, goes serious, “did not like Raphael.”
I laugh. “And what about you? How is that nonlifesaving work going?”
I know what the answer is. I’ve skimmed the headlines about him, announcing his major deals, his even more major wins. My experience of those moments was a rush of pride, followed quickly by regret. I always stopped short of clicking into the links, afraid of losing my footing, getting caught in the storm of complicated, conflicting emotions. Catching those flashes of his life had always felt illicit, like peering through a peephole.
But now, sitting with Reid himself, it feels... easy. I’m eager to hear him talk about his success. I’m walking right through a door, which he’s opened for me with a smile.
“Work is going well,” he says, sitting back in his chair again. It’s an understatement, and I’m happy to find that Reid’s ego has remained in check. “Somehow still a screenwriter.” He runs a hand through his hair. “All this gray? Wouldn’t exist if I’d found something else to do with my life.”
“It’s really amazing, Reid.” I let myself acknowledge that his career isn’t news to me.
“What’s amazing is that we’re both doing the things we set out to do.”
“Eh,” I shrug. “If it were up to me, I’d be shooting fewer ads and more fine art. Turns out you can’t send a kid to college off the kind of photos I took tonight.”
“Either way, you’re making a living off something you love. That doesn’t happen very often, for our generation.”
