The coordinator was professional. She asked if I wanted to reschedule rather than cancel, and I said no. She confirmed that no fifteen-thousand-dollar charge had been made, that our courtesy hold had expired without penalty, and that she would email both of us a record of the cancellation. I thanked her, then sat in front of the screens for a minute after the call ended.
Meera appeared beside my desk holding two paper cups of coffee. She was my supervisor, although after five years of working together that description seemed too narrow. She was forty-eight, a lawyer who had left private practice for a life in which she could sometimes eat dinner at home, and she had an almost supernatural ability to hear when somebody was pretending things were normal.
"You look like you spent the weekend negotiating with a hostile government," she said.
"Just my own life."
She set one cup down and leaned against the edge of my desk. "Do you need a few days?"
I started to say no. Work was predictable. Clients asked for changes, my job was to identify the risk, and documents rarely accused me of being emotionally unavailable when I asked to read them. But I had barely slept since Thursday and I was scheduled to return to Wisconsin the following weekend.
"I might," I admitted.
"Then take them. I can cover the vendor meeting."
"You don't know what happened."
"I don't need to know details to understand you need a moment to catch up with your life."
I thanked her and returned to the contract. For the first hour I read the same paragraph repeatedly without remembering a word of it. Then I closed the file and walked outside, where the city air was cool enough to clear my head. I called a counselor whose number Julian had sent me months earlier, back when I'd first admitted Rachel and I were having trouble recovering from arguments.
The receptionist offered an appointment the following Wednesday. I took it. I had spent four years trying to learn how to calm Rachel, but very little time asking why I was willing to be responsible for the emotional temperature of every room we shared. I wanted to understand that before I built another relationship, whether with Rachel or anyone else.
At lunchtime, I received a text from an unfamiliar number. It said, Bruce, this is Henry Lowell. I know I am probably the last person you want to hear from. I would like to clear up what happened Thursday, but only if you want that conversation. If not, I won't contact you again.
I put the phone on the desk and looked at it for several minutes. Part of me wanted to delete the message. I was tired of Henry's name being a lever in my relationship, tired of having to think about a man who had not chosen to be my fiancee's ex. Another part of me recognized that he might be trying to do something Rachel and I had failed to do: establish facts without demanding an emotional performance.
I replied that I could speak for ten minutes after work. He called at five thirty. His voice was quieter than I expected, with the awkward formality of someone who understood he was entering a conversation he had no right to control.