Grabbing her phone, she tapped on the Instagram app. Maybe she’d see a few pictures, and they wouldn’t be as spectacular as she’d pictured it in her head.

Yes. She had so much work to do at Addict. The place needed her. She needed to talk herself down from the ledge and focus on that.

She didn’t have much of an Instagram account herself; after all, she had no life. What would she do?—post pictures of her keyboard and her coffee mug? But she liked to follow the girls. This time, she barely looked at a photo of Beatrice in front of some theater in Japan before double-tapping the like. Then she tried entering Macey’s name into the search bar, but all she found were a bunch of other Maceys. No Macey who’d recently been to Spain. No sunny vistas and old churches and everything she wanted to see in Europe.

Annoyed, she swiped down to her husband’s account, and her jaw fell open.

She checked the name again to make sure she had it right. Yes, he was ejstjames.

She stared at the picture again, wishing she could unsee it.

Evan hadn’t done anything terribly wrong to her. They’d simply grown apart until even Diana had to admit that, wrapped in their own careers, they’d become virtual strangers living under the same roof. Roommates. The passion, he’d said, was gone, and she had to agree.

She hadn’t minded it. She was in her fifth decade of life. She’d figured that if that was as good as it got, she was content. Everything was steady. Predictable. Fine.

But Evan, apparently, did mind it—big-time. So much so that he was prepared to make changes that, at this stage of Diana’s life, just sounded exhausting.

After that speech, six months ago, he’d moved out. Lawyered-up. Started the divorce proceedings. Came by every so often to get his fishing pole, his skis, the things he’d accidentally left during the first sweep. Usually he did so while she was at work, which really was most of the time.

But she didn’t hate him. In fact, she missed him. He was a man she’d shared the bulk of her lifetime with, and she loved him. He’d even said that to her, once or twice, too. Maybe it was just out of habit, but he’d often end their calls with “Love you, Di.” The one time she’d been there, he’d told her how much he “missed us.” Even though he’d never suggested getting back together, he’d put a hand on the small of her back and said that he was sorry about the way things had happened, and she was sure there was regret glistening in his eyes.

So she thought it was just a matter of time. This was a late-hitting mid-life crisis. He often entertained whims like that photography kick he went on or that steel pan drum he wanted for his birthday that one year. All that stuff ended up in the closet a couple months later. He just needed the time to work it out of his system.