I wore a green dress.
I'd bought it eight months ago for a dinner that never happened, our anniversary, which Ethan had remembered at six p.m. and apologized for at six-fifteen via text while I sat in the restaurant we were supposed to go to together. I'd taken the dress home still in its bag. Every time I looked at it in the closet I thought: soon.
Tonight was soon. Even if it wasn't what I'd imagined.
I arrived at Marlowe's at five to seven and asked for the east window table. The restaurant was everything Ethan had described; low light, white linen, the kind of place that made you feel like whatever you were about to say mattered. The view through the glass was the city at its most forgiving hour, all gold and blur and movement.
I ordered a glass of Burgundy and I looked at the menu and I didn't let myself check my watch.
He'd said seven-thirty. It was seven-ten. I had time.
The scallops were on the menu exactly where he'd said they'd be. Seared, with cauliflower purée. I remembered him describing them from a business trip three years ago, his voice warm over the phone, you'd love it, Nat, we'll go when I'm back and I believed him so completely that I could almost taste them.
I ordered them for myself.
At seven-thirty, I checked my phone. Nothing.
At seven-forty-five, a text arrived.
[Running behind, give me twenty.]
I put the phone face-down. I ate my scallops. They were as good as described, maybe better, because I was actually here eating them instead of just imagining it. There was something quietly victorious about that.
At eight-fifteen, still no Ethan, another text.
[Something came up. I'm sorry. Tomorrow?]
I read it twice. Something came up. The same something that had come up for five years, wearing different shoes every time.
I ordered the truffle pasta.
I found out at eleven that night.
My friend Dana, sweet, terrible-timing Dana sent me a photo with a message that just said: Nat. I'm sorry. I thought you should know.
It was a screenshot from someone's Instagram story. A rooftop bar, fire pits, expensive wine and there in the background, unmistakable in that jacket I'd bought him for Christmas last year, Ethan. His hand reached toward someone just off-frame.
Same night. The same hour he'd said something came up.
I looked at the photo for a long time. Longer than I needed to. I told myself I was fine. I was mostly fine. But there was this one specific thing his hand reaching toward her. With the ease of someone who had been reaching toward her for a long time and had finally stopped pretending he wasn't.
I saved the photo. I don't know why. Maybe because I needed proof. Not for a lawyer, not for anyone else just for myself. For the moments when I'd start to soften this into something more bearable than it was.
He came home at midnight.
I was sitting in the living room with the lights on. Not waiting, I want to be clear about that. I'd been sitting there reading, or trying to read, and I simply hadn't moved when I heard his key in the door.
He stopped when he saw me. Guilt moved across his face so fast he almost managed to hide it.
"You're still up," he said.
"I had a lovely dinner," I said. "The scallops were everything you said they'd be."
He had the decency to look ashamed. Just barely.
"Natalie, I can explain…"
"You don't have to." I closed my book, Stood up. I kept my voice level and my hands still and I looked at him the way you look at something you've finally made a decision about. "But I need you to understand something, Ethan. You made a deal, thirty days and you broke the first promise on day one."
"I know."
"The restaurant on Fifth." I walked past him toward the stairs. "I made the reservation for Saturday again. Don't be late this time."
"Natalie…"
I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Turned around.
"Who texted me?" I asked. "Earlier, telling me we should talk, Woman to woman."
His face went completely still.
There it was. ‘He hadn't known she'd done that and now he did. And whatever Vivienne had said in that text, whatever she'd decided to do while he was having dinner with her instead of me, it was something he didn't know about.
Interesting.
"I'll see you in the morning," I said, and I went upstairs.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling and I thought about the text I still hadn't answered. We should talk. Woman to woman.
What did she want? To warn me off? To gloat? To make some kind of arrangement?
Whatever it was, she'd done it without telling him.
Vivienne Carr was playing her own game.
And I had a feeling, quiet, cold, absolutely certain that Ethan Cole had no idea what it was.
Neither did I, yet.
But I was starting to think thirty days might be enough time to find out.