The first time I saw Adrian Voss was in a photograph Vanessa showed me years before our wedding. He stood beside her at a college party, both of them younger and amused by the camera. They had dated for about a year and split up because, she said, he was charming until you needed him to show up for anything difficult. The story ended with her rolling her eyes and telling me she had outgrown him.
He reappeared last February after opening a partnership in a nightlife promotion company. At first, Vanessa described him as an industry contact who might bring her some profitable clients. I was pleased for her. She had worked hard to build a reputation in event marketing, and I knew how much she valued opportunities that came from old connections.
Soon she was attending launches he organized. She dressed carefully for them and came home talking about investors, photographers, music, and rooftop views. I listened and asked questions. Occasionally she showed me pictures of glossy rooms filled with people I'd never meet, and I told her I was proud she was getting the recognition she'd wanted.
But somewhere in the spring, Adrian stopped being simply a professional contact and became the person whose opinion she checked before making decisions. She began quoting his ideas about ambition and freedom. He called our evenings at home "retirement practice," she said with a laugh, and once he described my work as "the dependable part of society nobody thinks about." Vanessa repeated that description as if it were a compliment I was too humorless to appreciate.
In June, we were supposed to spend a weekend in the Catskills for my birthday. We'd reserved a small cabin beside a lake, and I had been looking forward to walking in the woods and shutting our phones off. Two days before we left, she told me Adrian had invited her to assist at a major event in Manhattan. The opportunity was important, she said; we could celebrate my birthday anytime.
I canceled the cabin and told my friends I was busy. That Saturday she texted a photograph of herself beside a champagne tower at one in the morning with a caption about a spectacular night. I was sitting alone in our living room with a slice of birthday cake Ethan had dropped off. It had been my idea not to make her feel guilty. I remembered that clearly because I had become very good at explaining away my disappointments before she had to.