And once we were out of school and work became my life, I didn’t feel the need to see much of anyone else, not Claudia or Evan or Sam, even. So in response to hearing that they were asking after me, I said, “I’m glad they’re curious.”

Quinn dropped his mug into the sink, the ceramic clattering loudly against the metal. “You can use the shower if you want. I’m going to make breakfast.” And I was dismissed.

I didn’t think about Tom or the date for the rest of the day. Huda called me at 7:30 and told me she needed me to take an 8:00 a.m. call with a Japanese wholesale client because she would be at the dentist. From there, the day descended into its usual madness, my phone’s constant chirps and pings and the chatter of our small, cramped office providing the sensory overload that I’d grown used to.

An investment meeting was moved to two weeks later, screwing up our calendar for the month. A few orders were lost leaving our new fulfillment provider, creating not only a customer service hassle but also a headache for our inventory processing software. Huda came in still high from nitrous oxide, and accidentally sent the wrong mock-ups of the fall collection to a top client.

By the time an assistant sent me a spreadsheet organized by first name instead of last, I was on my last nerve, not caring to hide my contempt as I explained her mistake. To my horror, she began to cry, dainty droplets running down her reddening nose.

When she came to me, later in the day, eyes dried and nose powdered, I wondered if she expected me to apologize. I knew I should, and I squeezed my temples, forcing myself to relax, to put on a smile and apologize to her. “V-Vera?” she said timidly, twisting her honey hair with a fingertip. “These were dropped off downstairs for you.” And she scurried away from my desk before I could ask anything else of her.

It was an invitation to a private showing of the latest Mark Ryden exhibition. For the first time all day I let myself smile genuinely.

8

Present day

“Why would you do this to me?” For the second time today I’m getting confrontational in a coffee shop. I glare at Quinn from across the table of Pine Tree Café, an untouched matcha latte sitting between us. “Do you know what it’s like to see her name? Do you know how many times a day I want to hurt myself because something reminds me of her? She’s everywhere, always. She’s my ghost. Jesus Christ, Quinn. What were you thinking? You should have burned it the moment you saw it.”