Page 47 of Ricardo

Ricardo has no place in my kitchen on a Saturday morning.

He has no place in this apartment at all.

He has an office in the same building where I work, expensive suits, a dangerous smile, and a son who has been my friend since I was twenty. He has an accent that turns ordinary words into something else entirely. He has the irritating ability to look at me as if he is listening to everything I say and hearing more that I haven't.

He does not belong here.

The problem is that I can still hear his voice.

Ask for something small.

I look around the apartment.

Fine. Something small.

I take my coffee into the living room and stand in the center of it, assessing the space the way I would assess an event room before donors arrived. Traffic flow. Visual balance. Points of awkwardness. Items that do not belong.

There are too many of those.

I move toward the tower of boxes against the firewall and shift them until I find the one I want.

It's labeled GALA/CONNECTICUT.

How efficient, Julia, I think sarcastically. Ever, reliably practical Julia.

I set my coffee on the floor beside me and cut through the tape.

The first things inside are programs. Seating charts. Thank-you notes from donors. A folder of printed vendor contracts I probably should have shredded before I left. Everything is neat because of course it is. Even when I was leaving, some part of me still believed neatness was of the utmost importance.

Beneath the folders is a silver picture frame wrapped in tissue paper.

For a second, I consider putting it back exactly where I found it and closing the box. That would be easy. Cowardly, but easy.

Instead, I pull away the tissue.

Harrison and I stare back at me from beneath the glass. He is in a tuxedo, one arm around my waist, chin angled slightly toward the camera. I am in a pale blue dress, my practiced smile gracing my face.

The photograph is from a foundation gala in Greenwich, months before he proposed.

I remember packing it now.

I remember not wanting to decide what to do with it. I remember telling myself I would deal with it later, when my hands were steadier, and my life made more sense.

Later, apparently, is a Saturday morning in Chicago.

I pick up the frame.

For a second, my hand refuses to move beyond that. Ridiculous, considering I left the man. I ended the engagement. I went back to the perfect home he picked out while he was in DC, packed my things with Dante’s help, and left the ring on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

The hard part is over. A photograph should be easy.

My mother would tell me it is wasteful.

My father would tell me there is no need to be dramatic.

Harrison would tell me I am being childish.

Dante would tell me to chuck it out the window.