Chapter 8

Julia

I was standing in our tiny kitchen, humming to myself, stirring a pot of pasta and a bubbling skillet of sauce. It was Adam’s recipe. He was always giving me things like this—scraps of knowledge, bits of adulthood. I wanted to make it just so I could tell him later that I’d done it.

I heard the door open, then the jangling of keys and the thunk of a briefcase dropped to the floor. “What’s this?” Evan said. He was home earlier than usual. I don’t think he’d ever seen me use the stove before. “Are you making dinner?”

He looked so disbelieving that I smiled. “Pasta. There’ll be enough for both of us.”

“It smells amazing.” He hovered a few inches away. A year earlier, he would have slipped his arms around my waist. “I’m starving.”

We ate together on the futon. When I finished my pasta and looked up, Evan was watching me. He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I let myself follow him. What I felt for Adam was spilling over into the rest of my life, like some blissful pharmaceutical. When Evan was on top of me, I stared at the ceiling. I didn’t want to have sex with him, but I also didn’t mind. I felt easy and calm about it.

After, as Evan was catching his breath, he turned to me.

“It’s your birthday on Thursday,” he said.

“Yup.”

“We should go out.”

I’d been counting on Evan having to work, leaving me free to do something with Adam instead. “Oh. Okay,” I said.

“Unless you already have plans?”

“No. Uh, no plans. That sounds good.”

“I’ll make a reservation somewhere. I’m glad I remembered.” He kissed me on the cheek, then rolled over and fell asleep.

This was part of the problem. Evan remembered my birthday; he stayed faithful to me; he paid his share of the rent on time. There had been no dramatic betrayals. Instead there was a long stretch of absence. Where I saw an accumulating string of rejections, lonely nights and questions unasked, Evan probably saw a normal relationship. He upheld his end of the bargain. He checked the boxes required of him. And if there were no further boxes to check, he probably assumed he’d done everything he needed to do.

On Thursday morning, two dozen red roses awaited me at the office, with a card that read: “Thinking of you today—Adam.” I propped the card next to my computer. Laurie saw the flowers when she came in, paused briefly, but didn’t ask about them. My phone rang later that morning, my sister calling.

“Julia?” Elizabeth said. “Hey, happy birthday!”

“Why are you whispering?”

“I’m in the library. Studying for midterms. How’s the day been?”

“Pretty good. I’m at work, so…you know. Boring old Thursday so far.”

“Are you and Evan going out tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Somewhere good?”

“I hope so. He was supposed to make the reservation.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Jules?” she finally said. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. I don’t know. Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

But that was the thing. I didn’t want to talk about Evan or what was wrong; I wanted to talk about what was finally right. Having to muffle the good news—Adam, this new turn my life had taken—was so annoying. I couldn’t do or say what I wanted, not even on my birthday. I inhaled the thick, sweet scent of Adam’s roses. What was wrong with this picture? I hadn’t heard a thing from Evan all day. Evan, the one who was supposed to be my boyfriend.

“Is it Evan?” she prompted, interrupting my silence.

“Kind of.” I sighed. “Things aren’t great.”

“Oh, shit. What’s going on?”

“Well, for one, he works all the time. I barely even see him.”

“Poor guy.”

I laughed bitterly. “Don’t feel bad for him. He loves it.”

“Okay, then. Poor you.”

“I guess it’s okay. I’ve been spending a lot of time with”—I came so close to blurting out Adam’s name, so incredibly close—“with, um, friends. Keeping busy, you know.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in tedium, with Laurie dropping off files and marked-up memos on my desk. Her eye kept catching on the roses, but she seemed strangely determined not to comment. Near the end of the day, my phone rang again.

“Jules,” Evan said, his voice heavy. “I’m so sorry. I’m on my way to the airport right now. Michael just told me. Spire’s sending a team to this conference in Las Vegas, and he wants me along, too. I’m there all weekend. I feel terrible.”

“A conference? Why?”

“I’m not sure. It’s global macro, stuff I don’t even work on. Michael said he’d fill me in later.” A loud honk sounded. I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “Shit,” he said. “This traffic is insane. I’m sorry, Julia. I really am. I’m on the red-eye back on Sunday, so I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

“Whatever. It’s fine,” I said. Evan, once again relegating me to second place, proving how little I mattered to him—a fact that was equal parts upsetting and liberating. I felt a weird mixture of anger and relief. It was fine. In fact, maybe it was better than fine. I’d be spared from dinner at some overpriced midtown restaurant, with mediocre food and nothing to talk about. The weekend was all mine. I put a smile back into my voice. “See you in a few days.”

*  *  *

I began running longer, farther that fall. I could go for six miles, eight, even nine or ten without tiring. Far north along the river and back down to the Queensboro, or in long loops around Central Park. I thought maybe I’d train for a marathon. Or at least a half marathon. The miles flew by while my mind was lost in daydreams, breath steaming in the cold morning air, the rhythmic crunch of gravel under my shoes. I felt my body growing lighter, stronger. For six months my imagination had been starved of oxygen, but I was breathing at last, enormous gulps of air.

For the first week, after that kiss in the cab, Adam and I had studiedly sober interactions: brightly lit coffee shops, a walk at lunch, a gallery opening in the evening. Testing the water. That deliberateness seemed so grown-up, part of the reason I was sure it was the right thing to do. We didn’t talk about what had happened in the cab, but it saturated our relationship with a new intensity. Adam would e-mail me at work to tell me a funny thing he’d overheard or share a link to a story he thought was interesting. He’d ask how a meeting went, how my day was going. Things he hadn’t done before. It thrilled me, the knowledge that Adam—Adam McCard, the most dazzling man I’d ever met—was thinking about me all the time.

We made plans to have dinner on a Saturday night in early November—a week after the kiss—then stop by his friend’s party afterward. Evan would be working late, as usual. We met at the restaurant, a small place in the West Village. He was waiting for me at the bar, and I could taste the liquor on his breath. I knew this was it, the night when things would go one way or another, once and for all. I was nervous. The way I imagined an actor might feel before the curtain rises for the first time.

We had a drink before dinner, then shared a bottle of wine. Adam greeted the maître d’ by name. The sommelier, too. He was a regular. It skipped across my mind that he had probably brought other women here before, other girlfriends, but I didn’t care. It was my turn. There was candlelight, thick linen napkins, leather armchairs. The menu, tiny type on creamy paper. Jewel-like coins of tuna tartare, halibut crusted in a bright green sleeve, a tangle of golden pasta. The wine was a rich, deep Burgundy—at least that’s what Adam told me—and I was tipsy by the time we stood up to leave, my nervousness forgotten. Adam helped me on with my coat. He was so handsome up close. The dark hair, the cheekbones. He leaned forward to kiss the tip of my nose.

“Come on,” he said. “Nick’s place is right around the corner.”

The doorman nodded us inside a stately brick building on Christopher Street. Adam held my hand through the crowded apartment to the bedroom, where we added our coats and scarves to the pile heaped on the bed. It was a big room, an adult-size bedroom, with a proper four-poster, a woven rug, art on the walls, floor lamps. It looked like a room Nick must share with a girlfriend, one with good taste and plenty of money.

These were all Adam’s friends. He was a few years older than me, and he ran with a crowd a few years older than him, so these people were miles beyond anyone I knew: journalists and editors and lawyers and producers, people who no longer had assistant in their titles. Adam steered me through the party, introducing me to everyone he knew. At one point, he bumped into a woman smoking a cigarette next to an open window. He turned to apologize, and I watched both of them light up with recognition. “Sara,” he said, kissing her on the cheek, then tugging me forward. “Hey. You two should meet.”

She was Japanese, her hair like a long curtain framing her face, her clothing artfully draped, her build slender and delicate. Her silhouette was like an old Al Hirschfeld sketch. “Sara, this is Julia Edwards. She was at Yale a few years behind us. Jules, Sara runs a gallery in Tribeca.”

“Hey,” she said. Her voice was smoky and cool. “Nice to meet you.”

Adam cast his eyes across the room. “I just have to say hi to somebody. I’ll be right back.”

I was nervous again without Adam there as a buffer. Surely Sara would dismiss me out of hand: a ditzy girl who didn’t belong, too young, too naive. She’d only talk to me until she could find an excuse to leave. But after he walked away, she smiled at me. She was less intimidating when she smiled.

“When did you graduate?”

“Just this year. In May.”

“Tough year. What are you doing in the city?”

“I’m working at a nonprofit. The Fletcher Foundation. I’m just an assistant, but—”

“But you have a job? Hey, that’s great. That’s more than a lot of people can say.”

I laughed. “I guess.”

“Most of my friends had to intern for, like, years before they found jobs. You’re doing fine.”

“It doesn’t really feel that way.”

“It will, eventually.” She had a knowing glint in her eyes. A lot of the people in this room did. I wanted that—the knowingness—more than anything. An understanding of the world and where I fit in it. Sara told me about her gallery in Tribeca, some of the artists she represented. She was going to Art Basel in Miami Beach in a few weeks. We talked for a while about the recent Turner show at the Met and the new Koons installation. I was surprised to find I was actually having fun. Sara made me feel like myself.

“Here,” she said as she lit another cigarette. “Here’s my card. Call me sometime. We can have lunch. And if you’re ever interested in leaving that job of yours, the gallery might be hiring next year.”

“Really?”

“Really. We could use someone like you. You seem smart. And nice, too. Too nice for Adam.”

She exhaled a plume of smoke. I laughed nervously. Too nice for Adam? I glanced down at her business card. A simple square with her name in raised black type. SARA YAMASHITA.

“There you are,” Adam said. “Come on—let’s say hi to Nick.”

“It was nice to meet you,” I said to Sara, slipping the card into my purse. “And thank you, really. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” She smiled serenely. “Keep in mind what I said.”

Nick had a real kitchen, too, a separate room with marble countertops and oak cabinets and a stainless steel range. He was holding court, in the middle of some story, and he turned toward us at the sound of his name. He was just like Adam, I could see—brimming with the same confidence, tailor-made for this kind of life. Nick stepped forward and reached for my hand. “You must be the famous Julia,” he said. “What can I get you guys to drink?”

He was tall and tanned, with very white teeth and a shock of blond hair. He wore a navy blue cable-knit sweater and khakis and soft brown loafers. He seemed to match his apartment: old money, old-money taste.

“I’ll have a bourbon,” Adam said, “and she’ll have a vodka soda.”

“With lime, if you have it,” I added. Adam always forgot the last part.

While Nick was fixing our drinks, Adam nudged me. “So what do you think?”

“This kitchen, holy shit. Is this guy a millionaire or something?”

“You were talking to Sara for a while.”

“Yeah. I like her. I can’t believe she runs her own gallery.”

“Don’t be too impressed. It’s all her family. Their money, their connections. Nothing she got on her own.”

“What, are you not a fan?”

“No, nothing like that. Sara’s a good person for you to know. But her dad is one of the biggest art dealers in the city. How hard do you think she had to work to get that gig?”

“She seems to be doing what she loves, at least.” I wished Nick would hurry up with the drinks. But he was distracted, greeting more people in that clubby way.

Adam laughed. “Sara’s not like that. I’m not sure love is an emotion she’s capable of.”

I tried to read his expression. For Adam to criticize someone else’s family connections seemed unfair. He had grown up in a Central Park West penthouse, his father a real estate mogul and his mother a society type. Adam was as privileged as they came. So what if he hadn’t chosen to follow his father into real estate? It was still strange for him to belittle Sara for doing something that almost anyone in her situation would have done. It stung, too, realizing that Adam could have said the same thing about me. The job I had, at a foundation run by our family friends—nothing I got on my own.

A thought occurred to me.

“How do you know Sara again?”

“Hmm?”

“Was she in your college, or what?”

“No. We dated for a while.”

“Oh.”

“It was freshman year. We met through the magazine.”

The same way that Adam and I had met. Adam’s reputation was well known. He’d slept around, a parade of flings and hookups, often a few at the same time, many drawn from the ranks of the magazine. This party had to be populated with other past conquests besides Sara. But weirdly enough, I wasn’t jealous. Maybe because I had no real claim over Adam. Being with Adam had become a way for me to step outside the bounds: a minor rebellion, leaving behind the boring life I had before. This was a different world, one of sommeliers and marble kitchens and doormen. It was a world where you could be blasé about the past and the consequences of your actions. A world where envy was what other people felt, not you.

“What, are you going to Russia for that vodka?” Adam said to Nick, raising his voice over the chatter.

“Hey.” Nick flashed his white-toothed smile, cutting a lime into wedges. “You want your drink or not?”

He handed us our glasses a moment later. Heavy cut-crystal tumblers. My hand dropped under the weight. I felt like I was at a party at my parents’ house.

“So, Julia,” Nick said. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Oh.” I hated that kind of question. What the hell was I supposed to say? What were the things that made me interesting or special? “Well, right now I’m—”

“Nick. There you are.” A brunette woman in a red dress appeared next to Nick. She laid her left hand across his chest, and an enormous diamond flashed from her ring finger. “Sweetheart, pass me the seltzer? Someone spilled in the living room.”

She noticed Adam and me standing there. “Hi,” she said, turning to offer me her other, ringless hand. “I’m Megan. Nick’s fiancée.”

“Julia. Thank you so much for having us.”

“You go with him?” She pointed at Adam.

“She’s my date for the night,” Adam said. “We’re old friends from college.”

“Well.” She smiled tightly. “Welcome.”

Fiancée? I thought as Megan walked out of the kitchen. Engaged? I didn’t know anyone who was engaged. When I saw that diamond sparkling on her finger, I felt the gulf that separated me from the rest of the partygoers crack wide open. It made sense. She and Nick had to be in their late twenties. Their kitchen, their artwork, their furniture, their clothes. Poised right on the cusp of bona fide adulthood. Only a handful of years separated us, but I felt further away from them than I did from my childhood self. I was about to turn twenty-three years old, and I couldn’t even begin to imagine it, real adulthood.

The thing was, it hadn’t always been so impossible to imagine. We had never actually talked about it, never said the word marriage, but that summer Evan and I spent in Europe—hot nights walking around Rome, sunny days on the Greek coast, afternoons in Paris—I thought about it more than once. I held his hand in mine, wrapped my arms around his neck, and felt myself consumed by love. A love that could endure anything. A love that had changed me. I grew dizzy from it sometimes. Of course we would be together forever. Of course we would get married someday.

But then everything changed. I regarded the Julia from a year and a half earlier with pity. That girl had known so little about what was to come—had been so naive about what it took for a relationship to work in the real world. I could never marry Evan. Never, ever. Evan wasn’t someone I could have a life with. We were too different, and he didn’t care about me. That’s why it felt so natural, sliding into this new thing with Adam. Evan and I were clearly headed for a breakup. It was only a question of time.

So why didn’t I rip the bandage off? Why keep living with someone for whom I felt nothing? Ending things would have kept me from cheating on Evan. It would have prevented so much of the collateral damage. But that decision would have taken conviction. Planning and execution. And, frankly, it would have required that I find my own place to live, which was annoying and prohibitively expensive. And in that moment, I liked the doing. Abandoning myself to impulse. Besides, I thought. The coming holidays might precipitate a breakup. They always had a way of throwing gasoline on the fire. Evan wasn’t any happier in this relationship than I was. If I waited, he might just do it himself.

“Let’s mingle a little longer, and then we can go,” Adam said.

We talked to more of his friends. They were so different from the people at parties I’d gone to with Abby and Evan. A filmmaker working on an indie documentary. A consultant traveling four days a week to Omaha. A literary agent who had just sold a novel for seven figures. But even in this crowd, I could sense that Adam was exceptional. People were drawn to where he stood like iron filings to a magnet. He was as charming and commanding as he’d been in college. In this apartment, in this room full of people, Adam was still the brightest star in the universe.

And he had chosen me. In the cab afterward, he took my hand.

“You’re so beautiful. You know that, right?”

“Come on. Stop.”

“I mean it. I adore you.”

He leaned over and kissed me. We were sailing up 8th Avenue, no sign that the cab was going to go across town. Adam must have given the driver his address. My heart sped up. This was it. We stopped at a brick building at the corner of 80th and Riverside Drive. “You have to come up for a drink, at least,” Adam said, giving me an excuse that I didn’t need. “I have a great view.”

Adam’s apartment was on the twelfth floor. He tossed our coats on an upholstered chair in the foyer and led me to the far end of the living room. Family money: there was no way he could afford this on a journalist’s salary. He steered me to the window and slipped his arms around me from behind. The Palisades looked dark and velvety across the river, and the lights of Weehawken and Hoboken sparkled in the southern distance.

“Amazing, right?” he said, brushing his lips along my neck.

“Mmm.”

“I’ve wanted you to see this for a long time.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He turned me around, sliding his arms down my back, keeping me tight against him. He kissed me, and for a second it ran through my head like a siren, the last time we’d been here—but then it disappeared. I wanted this. There was no hesitation this time.

Afterward, we lay facing each other. Naked, sweat cooling, the room dim except for the glow from the streetlamps outside. He had one arm behind his head, and with his other hand he traced a line along my waist.

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve thought about that,” he said.

“Me, too.” I moved closer and buried my face in his chest, breathing him in.

“We fit together,” Adam said. “Look at that.” And it was true. Our bodies were made to be in this very position. He kissed me on the forehead and said, “Do you want to stay over? I make a mean breakfast.”

“I think I’d better get home. What time is it?”

“A little after one.”

“Can I use the bathroom?”

“Out the door and to your left.”

I showered, my hair pulled back in a bun to keep it dry. I opened my mouth and tipped my head back, letting the hot water run in. I had to stifle a laugh. Adam McCard. It had finally happened. The steam drifted through the bathroom, and the glass door of the stall fogged over, and everything else disappeared.

*  *  *

Monday, more than two weeks later. A few days after my birthday. I went for a particularly long run that cold November morning. As I came down our block, I remember thinking it strange that there was someone sitting on our stoop. Who had time to linger at this hour? It might be one of the homeless men who sometimes slept in the alcove outside the drugstore. I dreaded having to squeeze past him on my way inside.

As I got closer, I felt a prickle on my neck. It was Evan. Sitting there, on the stoop. How had I not recognized him sooner? He was staring at his phone and jiggling his knees in a fast bounce, his duffel bag beside him. I’d forgotten that he was getting back from Las Vegas that morning. Adam and I had spent the weekend at his apartment, which was the best birthday present I could have asked for. He cooked, we listened to jazz, and I sat on the couch reading and watching the Hudson flow past. “Evan should go out of town more,” he said when I emerged from the shower wearing one of his button-downs. “Where did you say he was again?” He was in bed, shirtless, wearing his reading glasses. He looked like Clark Kent. It was a Saturday night, and we were staying in. I slid under the covers. “Some conference in Las Vegas. It’s weird. Michael wanted him to go along at the last minute. It has nothing to do with what he’s working on.” Adam nodded, his brow furrowed. Then he relaxed. “Well, it works for me.” I’d finally gone home late on Sunday night. The creaking floorboards in our dark apartment filled me with a wretched loneliness.

I stopped a dozen yards short of our door. Evan still hadn’t seen me. He stood up, picked up the duffel bag, then put it down. He tilted his head to look up at the sky. He checked his watch, then paced a few yards before reversing course. Something was off. I suddenly saw him as any stranger might: unshaved, tired, puffy, anonymous. It’s an odd trick, to consider how different someone looks when you strip away the forgiveness of familiarity. I had always known Evan up close. I encountered him all at once, and that’s what I had always liked about him: no hidden tricks or trip wires. But right then, that November morning, I had the feeling of traveling back in time. Evan was becoming a stranger in front of my eyes. This man sitting on my doorstep was someone I had never met before.

I shivered. This was how bad it had gotten: I considered turning around to do another lap in the park, waiting for Evan to leave for work. But then he finally looked up and saw me.

“Julia,” he said, springing to his feet.

“Hey. How was the trip?”

He glanced over his shoulder, then up the street behind me. His eyes, when they landed on mine, were brimming with a new emotion. Panic? Fear?

“I have to tell you something,” he said, and he pulled me inside.

*  *  *

The long-awaited Fletcher Foundation gala had been the week before. I got there early, in charge of checking guests in upon arrival. I peered through the doors into the ballroom, which glowed softly, with white roses and candlelight on every table. Up on stage was Eleanor, clipboard and BlackBerry in hand. She wore a long black gown. Her skin had the slightest dusting of a tan.

Laurie arrived, looking exhausted. I had overheard snatches of her conversation with Henry Fletcher earlier that day. She was explaining that the gala had cost more than anticipated. Donations had dried up, returns from the endowment were down, and we were tight on cash for the rest of the year. The conversation seemed to go badly. “Yes, of course,” she had said, raising her voice. “Of course I know how bad the market is right now. But I’m telling you that we’re at real risk of—”

She paused, apparently listening to him. She spoke more quietly, and I couldn’t make out what she was saying. She sighed after she hung up. Then she shut her door, and it stayed shut for the rest of the afternoon.

“Oh, hello, Julia,” she said distractedly. She dumped her bag and coat on the check-in table. “Can you find somewhere to put these?”

The guests started arriving in a trickle, then all at once. I kept a smile plastered on my face, answering questions, directing traffic. A corner of my mind worried over Laurie’s mood. If things were as bad as she said, I wondered whether my job might be in jeopardy. A little later, Abby and Jake walked through the door. “Julia!” Abby said, coming over to give me a hug. “Holy crap. Woman in charge.”

“Hey,” Jake said, jerking his chin in greeting.

“Hi, guys. Let’s see…you’re at table one. No surprise there, I guess.”

“You look great,” Abby said.

“Stop. You look great.” She did, too. I had never seen her so radiant. “Hey, Jake, are your parents here? Laurie is eagerly awaiting them.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, rubbing his chin and looking bored. “They’re outside. My dad got stopped by some reporter.”

Adam, I thought, and my heart fluttered.

“Are we sitting together?” Abby said.

“What? Oh, no. Laurie is probably at your table, though.”

Abby and Jake drifted toward the coat check. There was a lull in the arrivals. I took the chance to scoot out from behind the table and survey the red-carpeted sidewalk. Henry and Dot Fletcher were talking to the reporter, a man in jeans and a parka. He held a recorder up toward Henry Fletcher. The parka man turned, catching the light on his face. It wasn’t Adam. Of course it wasn’t. I went back to the table, smoothed my skirt, and resumed my smile. The Fletchers approached the table. Dot, to her credit, remembered who I was.

“Julia, dear! It’s so wonderful to see you. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. I’m so—”

She clutched my hand to cut me off. “I was just talking with your mother the other day. You look lovely. So grown up. Doesn’t she, Henry?”

He turned, distracted, rubbing his chin. He and Jake were so much alike.

“Of course. Nice to see you.”

Dot smiled sweetly at me, waving her fingers as they walked away to join the party. Henry, I noticed, had a tan, too.

  

Eleanor swept through to check on me as the guests started filing into the ballroom for dinner, after the cocktail hour ended.

“What time is it?” she said.

There was a clock on the wall. “Ten past eight.”

“Good. Stay here till eight thirty, in case anyone trickles in.” She tossed her hair back over her shoulders. “Oh, and Julia, I forgot to say. Laurie doesn’t like junior staff to drink at work events. It’s always been her policy. So just be aware of that.”

She emphasized the junior in “junior staff” with particular care. I gave the finger to her back as she walked into the ballroom. The event had started at 6:30. Nobody else was going to show up at this point. This was pure spite—Eleanor wanting to remind me that she was the one in charge.

I texted Adam. How’s the deadline coming?

It was quiet in the entrance hall, just the muted sound of traffic on Park Avenue and the occasional clatter of silverware from the ballroom. I started counting the number of no-shows for the final tally when I felt my phone buzz.

Still trying to get this piece done. I don’t suppose you have any comment on the AIG bailout? Or insight into what the Fed is thinking?

I laughed. No comment. And no insight. Sorry, I’m useless.

A minute later, another buzz. Not useless. You’re my motivation to get this done. Meet me later for a drink?

  

I found my seat in the back as the waiters were delivering the entrées. Everyone was already paired off in conversation, raising their voices against the echo of the big room. My arrival went unnoticed. I cut my chicken and asparagus into small, careful bites, taking up as much time as I could. I buttered a roll and ate it, then buttered and ate another one.

Thank God, I thought when the waiters cleared our dishes and Henry Fletcher approached the podium on stage. He cleared his throat, and the microphone screeched with feedback. He rattled off a list of thank-yous, then droned on about the importance of supporting young and emerging artists. That during these trying economic times, it was crucial to ensure that arts programs retained funding. It was very dreary. Half the room was checking e-mail by the time he was finished.

At the end of his speech, Mr. Fletcher paused. He folded up the piece of paper he had been reading from, removed his glasses, and returned both to his pocket. Then he cleared his throat again. “And now, before I turn it over to the formidable Laurie Silver, I’d like to make an announcement.”

This was a surprise.

“I’m pleased to say here, for the first time, that Dot and I are making a donation of ten million dollars to the Fletcher Foundation to establish a new series of grants for next year and future years. And for all donations made in the next six months, we will personally match your gifts dollar for dollar.”

The room erupted in applause. Mr. Fletcher smiled a stiff smile.

“We want to show our commitment to the vitality and endurance of the great achievements of the foundation during the past decade, and we hope you’ll join us in doing so. And, without further ado, Laurie Silver, president of the Fletcher Foundation.”

The room rose to its feet, the applause swelling as Laurie ascended the stage. I was relieved. Even if I hated it, I would be able to keep my job until I found something better. Laurie and Mr. Fletcher embraced. She was smiling, but she looked less exuberant than I expected. From the snatches I’d overheard, Laurie had asked for another three or four million to keep things running. Henry Fletcher had just thrown us a lifeline above and beyond what we needed, I was sure of it.

After Laurie’s speech, I found Abby and Jake by the bar. I ordered a double vodka on the rocks. Eleanor’s rule probably wasn’t real, and I didn’t care. Something about the news of the donation, and Laurie’s reaction, had unsettled me. I suspected that I had very little understanding of what was really happening. It was all occurring under the surface, where I couldn’t see. But a minute later, after the drink, I felt better. Calmer.

“That was nice, right?” Abby said to Jake. “It’s great that your parents are doing that.”

Jake shrugged. “Yeah. It’s good.”

“Did you have fun?” Abby asked me.

“Sure. It was fine.” I tipped back my drink, the ice rattling in my glass.

“Let’s get you another one of those.” She waved at the bartender.

“We’re going out after this, right?”

“Not me. My alarm is going off tomorrow at six whether I like it or not.”

“What? Abby!”

“Do you know what it’s like teaching kindergarten with a hangover? Fucking miserable is what. I learned my lesson the first time. Sorry, Jules, I can’t.”

“It’s just been so long since we went out together.” I sounded whiny.

Jake faked a yawn, slipping his arm around Abby’s waist. “Yeah. I’ve got an early day tomorrow, too. Should we go get a cab?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Abby hugged me. “You look great, though, you really do.”

When the bartender came over, I ordered another drink. The ballroom was emptying fast, the guests bolting for the coat check and their black cars. I noticed Laurie and Dot Fletcher by the side of the stage. The vodka emboldened me. I ought to go and thank Mrs. Fletcher for the donation. Laurie sometimes seemed to forget that I was a real person, equipped to handle more than the most basic administrative work. This—a chance to sound articulate and thoughtful—might help remind her of that. I was smart, I was interesting, I was capable of intelligent conversation. I deserved more than I was getting. Maybe I just had to take it for myself.

I touched Mrs. Fletcher on the elbow. She looked startled to see me. “Oh, hello, Julia. Laurie’s speech was wonderful, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was. Mrs. Fletcher,” I said, glancing over at Laurie. Her lips were drawn in a tight line. “I just wanted to say thank you, so much, for your and Mr. Fletcher’s show of support tonight. It was inspiring, really.”

Dot and Laurie made brief eye contact, something passing between them. “There’s no need to thank us, dear. We see this foundation as our responsibility. It bears our name, after all.”

“Of course. Well, I thought it was very nice.”

“Yes,” Laurie said. “In fact, we were just talking about what this donation is going to allow us to do in the upcoming year.”

Laurie looked more annoyed than anything else. She and Dot tilted their shoulders to indicate I was no longer welcome. But I was distracted anyway by the sight, behind them and out of their field of vision, of Henry and Eleanor.

It looked innocuous enough. Their heads were awfully close together, but it was noisy in the ballroom. I stepped aside and took my phone out, pretending to check something. Then I glanced back up at Henry and Eleanor. He slipped his hand to the small of her back, leaning in closer. She looked over her shoulder, then nodded. From my pretending-to-be-on-the-phone post a few feet away, I heard Mr. Fletcher approach Laurie and Dot. “Honey,” he said to Dot. “I just got a call from the office. I need to go in tonight. Something urgent’s come up.”

“Now? Henry, it’s so late.”

“Turmoil in the Asian markets. I should only be a few hours. You take the car, and I’ll see you back at the hotel.” He exited the ballroom with long and loping strides. Eleanor had already disappeared.

Outside, the sidewalk held a few lingering couples. It was a little after 10:00 p.m. I was less than twenty blocks from our apartment. I could go home, wash my face, put on my pajamas, and wake up early and fresh the next morning. Be responsible. It didn’t sound so bad. I started walking north on Park, past the empty office lobbies strung through the night like square golden beads. Some of the lobbies had oversize sculptures in the center, like exotic flowers suspended in a high-ceilinged terrarium. They looked so strange, alone in the night, on display for no one.

I was getting closer to home, and Park had gradually turned residential, the big glass lobbies replaced by solid limestone and brick. I felt my phone buzzing and saw Adam’s name on the screen.

“Hey. Where are you?”

“Walking home. I just left the gala.”

“I’m only going to be a few more minutes. Meet me at my place?”

“Well…I really am almost home. It’s getting kind of late.”

“I have a good bottle of wine. I’ve been saving it. In the cabinet next to the fridge. The doorman will let you in. I’ll be right behind you.”

This was my fourth visit to Adam’s apartment in as many days. Upstairs, I flipped the lights on and wandered through the living room, running my fingertips along the spines of the books on his bookshelf. It was the first time I’d been alone with Adam’s things. I went into the bedroom. He had a desk at one end of the room. I noticed the bookshelf next to his desk was filled with books on finance. Histories, economic theory, Barbarians at the Gate, When Genius Failed, Liar’s Poker. Curious. It was his beat at the Observer, but he’d always described it as a way station. Not something he was genuinely interested in. I pulled the copy of When Genius Failed from the shelf. The pages were dog-eared and bristling with Post-it notes. I fanned through it. There were pencil marks and underlines on nearly every page. It had the look of something obsessive.

I jumped when the door slammed. “Hello?” Adam called. I shoved the book back onto the shelf and hurried out to the living room, where he was shrugging off his coat. “There you are,” he said.

“How was work?”

“I’m glad it’s over.” He ran his eyes over me. “That is one hell of a dress.”

“You think so?” I glanced down, tugged at the fabric. “I was just about to take it off, actually. But if you’d prefer I keep it on…”

Afterward, in bed, he rolled over and pulled a pack of Marlboros from his nightstand drawer. He lit the cigarette, inhaled, then exhaled with a sigh. He always looked more pensive in profile.

“You smoke?”

“Sometimes.”

“I don’t think I knew that.”

He blew a smoke ring that floated briefly in the air above him. The room was almost unnaturally quiet. The constant thumps and squeaks and rattles that I’d come to expect in our walk-up apartment were absent here. Thick walls, double-glazed windows, the rugs and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves: we were in a womb of money and culture. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Then he laughed. “You want one?”

“Sure,” I said. I didn’t want it, not really, but it felt like the right thing to do.

*  *  *

In our apartment, that morning of his return, I sat on the futon while Evan paced.

Back and forth, back and forth. I’d never seen him like this.

“Evan, what is it?” I said. “Just tell me.”

He stopped abruptly. “Michael. It’s Michael. The thing has been rigged all along. And he made me deliver the papers, so the blood is on my hands, too. They trapped me. I can’t go anywhere. It’s totally fucked.”

“Slow down,” I said. “What? What are you talking about?”

“The WestCorp deal. It’s fixed.”

“What do you mean?”

He took a deep breath. He started talking about the mechanics of the deal, Spire betting that WestCorp was going to skyrocket because of their exports to China. I nodded. I knew all that. Then he explained that China had agreed to loosen the trade barriers, to drop the taxes and tariffs. Again, old news.

“Evan,” I said. “I don’t—”

He held up a hand, kept talking. He’d gotten locked out of his hotel room by his coworker. So he’d crashed on the couch in another suite. Michael and someone else from Spire came back to the room in the middle of the night.

“Did they know you were there?” I interrupted. Evan shook his head. “Why didn’t you say something? Like, hey, guys, I’m right over here?”

“I couldn’t, Jules. I just couldn’t. It was too late.” There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The other person in the room confronted Michael while Evan was listening. He’d spotted something in the books. Michael admitted that the deal was rigged. Michael and WestCorp had arranged for immigration papers for the Chinese officials and their families. The next day, Michael asked Evan to deliver a briefcase to a Mr. Wenjian Chan at the Venetian.

“And you did it? You agreed to deliver the briefcase?”

He nodded, looking pale and sick.

“Evan. You had just overheard all that and you went along with it?”

“What else was I going to say? He didn’t know that I’d overheard them. So I deliver the briefcase, and Chan seems happy. But before I walk out, his daughter stops me. Translating what her father’s saying. They want to keep in touch, she says. She’s applying to college in the States, and they want my help. They seem to think I have the right connections. Like, she can blackmail her way in through me.”

“Did you tell Michael this?”

“He was already gone by the time I got back. I haven’t talked to him yet. I don’t know what to do.” He stopped his pacing and sank down onto the futon next to me. He dropped his head in his hands. “Jesus. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

I was silent. I waited for him to look up at me, but he wouldn’t. He kept his palms pressed up against his eyes, like a child willing a monster to disappear. After a minute, he said it again. “Julia. What should I do?”

He finally looked up. I flinched when he reached for my hand, when his gaze locked on mine. My heart was hammering. Evan had been ignoring me for so long. He hadn’t asked a single question in all that time. How was I? How was my day? How was I feeling? What was I thinking? And, finally, this was what he came up with. He wanted my help. I was only there to solve his problems, and then he’d go right back to ignoring me.

I was also thinking: How had he not figured this out? His pretending at innocence made me queasy. He wasn’t innocent. He’d done this, too. He let himself become blinded by it. We’re going to make billions. Spire is going to crush the rest of Wall Street. But when the truth finally became too uncomfortable, he wanted out. He wanted an escape. I was angry, but part of me felt relieved, too. Validated. I wasn’t the one who had fucked up our relationship. I’d been duped. Evan had betrayed me—had betrayed us. And whatever was happening, whatever person Evan was becoming, I wanted no part of it. This was a waste of my time. I was done.

“I don’t know, Evan.” I stood up, walked over to the kitchen. “I don’t know what you should do. You need to figure this out on your own.”

“What do you mean?” He looked confused. He hadn’t even considered that I would be anything but sympathetic. That confirmed it. He really wasn’t thinking about me.

I reached for a glass and filled it with water. I was just realizing how thirsty I was. “I mean that I don’t have the answer for you. This is your problem. You need to fix it.”

He said nothing for a long minute. My pulse was pounding in my ears. I hated this person in front of me, hated what he made me feel. I felt it boiling up, the blood in my body primed for a fight. Shouts, slammed doors, permanent words. Get out. The end.

But he just said, quietly, nodding to himself, “Okay.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’m late for work.” I put my glass down loudly on the kitchen counter and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. The shower took a long time to get hot, and as it did, I felt the sharp edge of my anger dulling. This was how it always went. Evan was always waiting for me to cool down, to come to my senses. He never let our fights escalate, never shouted back. His patience knew no bounds.

It didn’t have to be this way. Our relationship deserved a better ending than this. I wrapped myself in my towel and opened the bathroom door. I could apologize, tell him I was sorry for snapping like that. I would.

But Evan was already gone, his duffel bag left behind on the floor, the imprint of his body slowly fading from the cushions on the futon. I was too late.