The divorce was finalized that summer. We met once more at the courthouse, not for a spectacle but to complete the remaining formalities. Ethan wore a pale blue shirt I'd bought him years earlier and had repaired a loose cuff button himself. He looked calmer than he had in the months after the rooftop, although I no longer assumed I could tell exactly what he felt by reading his face.
Outside the building, beneath a sky threatening rain, I told him I was grateful we had been able to settle the finances without damaging the studio or our employees. He said he was grateful for that too. We stood for a moment while people hurried past carrying folders, coffee cups, and umbrellas. There was nothing dramatic in the scene, and I understood at last that this was not an injustice done to our story. The marriage had ended long before the paperwork said so.
"I hope you find some peace," I said.
He looked at me. "I hope you do too."
I wanted to ask whether he had forgiven me. Instead I thanked him for the honesty he'd given me in our last conversations, even when I couldn't bear to hear it. He nodded, told me to drive safely, and walked toward the parking garage. I watched him go without trying to make him turn around. It was one of the hardest acts of love I'd ever managed, and it came after I had forfeited the right to ask for his in return.
The first anniversary of the rooftop arrived in early October, carried on an ordinary work calendar that had no interest in the meaning I attached to the date. Copper & Bloom was preparing a fundraising event for a neighborhood arts nonprofit, and the venue coordinator called to confirm that the service elevator would be available for our equipment. I was standing beside a table covered in fabric samples when Jenna handed me the phone. The event would take place at the Aster House Hotel, in a conference hall several floors below the Lumen.
I had known the location when we accepted the contract. Anita Bell had recommended our company, and the nonprofit had negotiated a favorable rate with the hotel, making the space practical for its budget. I considered declining because I didn't want to return to the building where I'd made a spectacle of the worst thing I'd ever done. Then I looked at the event plan and saw the names of the students who would perform, the donors providing instruments, and the teachers who had worked for months to bring the evening together.
For years I had wanted the world to rearrange itself around my feelings. I decided I could walk into a hotel without asking a room full of people to carry the weight of my memories. The event belonged to the students. My job was to make it work.