want nothing to do with her. I don’t even want to speak her name. Either of them.” There’s a tiny purple vein in his temple that’s popped out, and it pulses angrily. “Besides, I hear from our mutual friends that she left Portland a few weeks back. Took my money and ran. She’s long gone.”
I nod. Outside, the pine trees rustle and sway. It has been warm for the better part of the week and much of the first snow has melted, leaving only icy crusts on the needles and slush along the drive. Another storm is due before the holidays, only a week away.
“And there’s one more little thing.” He closes his eyes, embarrassed to meet my gaze. “When she left here, Ash took the car, right? So…”
* * *
—
Michael drives out the following afternoon, in a new silver BMW SUV that we buy him at the dealership in Reno. Once I would have thought nothing of a purchase like this—a trinket, a toy!—but now the expense feels like a splurge. I have to learn to live within my new means, I remind myself, as I drive back over the summit alone. Michael won’t care, will he? All he needs is books, and coffee, and me.
When I get home the house feels oppressively silent without him. I walk through the empty rooms, pick up things that Michael has left behind: a sweater that I press to my face that smells of spice and cigarettes; the charger for his cellphone, which he left plugged into the wall by the bed; a water cup with the imprint of his lips along the rim. I press my lips against the outline, like a besotted schoolgirl.
I flop down in the library, the coziest room in the house. With Michael gone (To Nina? Despite his assurances, I worry), my internal chatter is starting up again; the whispers of self-doubt are back. I pull out my sketchbook and flip through the pictures of dresses, but they look flat on the page now, derivative and dull. Are these really any good? What if Michael’s just flattering me because he doesn’t want to hurt me?
I put the sketchbook down and go hunt for my phone; finding it hidden in the drawer of a sideboard in the parlor. I can’t help myself: I click on the Instagram app for the first time since we were married. There, I see that the world has continued apace even as my life has taken a radical left turn. Maya and Trini and Saskia and Evangeline are off in Dubai, wearing Zuhair Murad sundresses as they pose on the backs of camels. Saskia has uploaded a photo of herself in a leopard-print bikini with the phallic thrust of the Burj Khalifa tower rising up behind her; it has 122,875 likes and a long stream of comments. Beeaaautty—Maravilhosa—That bod is on fire—Girrrl, ur so hot can u follow me back?
When I click over to my own Instagram feed I see that my following has dropped again, dipping below 300,000 for the first time in three years. The natives are getting restless—Yo V, where u at these days? You on a social media fast? We want clottttthhhhhes—and I realize that I’m in danger of obsolescence.
Do I care? I wait to feel jealous of my old friends, or like I’ve lost something meaningful, but I feel nothing. No—I feel superior. I’ve finally learned to turn off the cameras and live in peace. (Again, her voice! I wish it would go away, even when it’s right.)
I force myself to put the phone back in the drawer. And then a moment later, I pick it up again and dial Benny’s number.
It rings for a long time before Benny answers. I wonder if they’ve taken his cellphone away again, but eventually he answers. His voice is thick and slurred. Have they increased his meds again? “Benny, I’ve got news.”
He’s been ignoring me for weeks now, my texts all going unanswered. He’s still mad at me. He still thinks I drove his one true love (good grief) away from him.
“News about Nina?”
“No. Jesus, Benny. Let that go.”
I can feel him pouting. “OK then, what? You’ve finally