Her expression tightened, and I could see anger rising beneath her embarrassment. "Lisa says you've become arrogant since you left," she said. "Maybe she's right. Maybe you always wanted to prove you were better than me." I felt the old temptation to explain myself in painful detail, to reassure her that I wasn't arrogant or cruel or vindictive. Instead I let the accusation exist without trying to repair it.
"You're entitled to your opinion," I said. "So is Lisa. But neither of you gets to decide whether I should be in this relationship." Emily looked at me for another moment, as if waiting for my composure to crack. Then she muttered that I'd regret being so cold and turned away toward the other side of the garden.
I stood where I was until my heartbeat slowed. I didn't feel victorious. I felt as though a door I'd been holding closed with both hands had finally stopped pushing back from the other side. The conversation hadn't revealed some perfect moral conclusion; it had simply confirmed that we still responded to conflict in ways that made being together impossible.
Daniel appeared a few minutes later and asked whether I was okay. I said I was, though I needed a moment, and he didn't press me for details. We went back inside when the music started, found our friends, and raised glasses to the newly married couple. I laughed at a speech from the groom's brother and later danced badly enough to earn several jokes at my expense.
I noticed Emily once more near the end of the night, talking quietly with her sister. She looked upset but calmer than when she'd approached me, and I hoped she'd get home safely. I didn't ask anyone to report what she said afterward, and I didn't tell the guests a story designed to make her look foolish. The wedding belonged to Ben and Rachel, and I was determined to leave it that way.
On the flight back to Amsterdam, I thought about the conversation without replaying it as a fantasy in which I delivered the perfect line. I had said what I needed to say, and it hadn't solved Emily's problems or erased my memories. That was fine. Closure, I was learning, wasn't the moment when someone else finally agreed with your version of events; sometimes it was the moment you stopped needing their agreement.
When I returned to the office, Noor invited me to discuss the expanded role we'd been considering. We went through the responsibilities and support the team could provide, and I accepted after making sure I understood what success would require. It felt good to be trusted, but even better to know I was making the choice for reasons I could explain without referring to Emily. The promotion became official a few weeks later, and I celebrated with friends over a long dinner near the canal.
I kept seeing Elise, slowly and without promising a future we hadn't earned. We learned each other's habits, disagreed about small things without turning them into moral judgments, and made plans that could be changed without anybody keeping score. Sometimes I told her about my past, but I didn't make Emily the central character in a relationship that was supposed to be about two people in the present. Whatever happened with us, I knew I wanted to keep that sense of honesty and room to grow.