I wear a billowy, unassuming sponge crepe dress, nude pumps, a long, loose eggshell-white spring coat that grazes my ankles. I put on only a dab of makeup, something to hide the blueish tinge under my eyes. I chopped my hair off when my longer locks were in the news. Now it’s shoulder length, ratty and split since I haven’t had a proper cut in six months. I twist it up, attempt to put it into a bun. Look in the mirror and wish, wish so hard that I’ll like what I see. The way I always used to.

Quinn meets me in our living room. He grabs my hand, kisses it, gives me a long look. “You know I’m not pressuring you to go to this thing. I’m the one who shoved it in your face, who suggested it. But we can back out whenever you want. We can leave as soon as we get there. We can go get brunch instead.”

I take a breath, close my eyes, think of young Odilie with her overplucked eyebrows and shy resignment. I want to go. I want to go and see her people. I want to know her as a living, human thing. Not as my foil, not as my tragedy. “Let’s go,” I say, and he holds my hand as we descend the stairs.

It’s in the courtyard of an apartment building, ornate and sunny. I wonder who is hosting. It must be a friend. Do they know that I was invited? I keep my sunglasses on as we cross the large mosaic-tiled lobby. We’re stopped by a mustachioed guard from the security detail. No press. He makes us drop our phones into a bucket, checks us for cameras, other devices. We meet his standards and are ushered in.

Quinn takes my hand again. I take a breath and hold it. We walk down a mirrored hallway, past an elevator bank. Until finally, finally, we’re at the courtyard, one windowed door propped open. And all I can see for a moment are prismatic hues, the helix of colors and sweaters and plants and sun blinding me.

And then we’re outside in the fresh air, claiming a pair of seats at the very back, the last line of chairs arranged pew-style.

No one has given me a second look. Not yet.

Up front, there’s a microphone, two large photos of Odilie. Someone is passing out programs. Quinn takes one. I don’t. My chair is at the end of the row, so fortunately, no one can sit beside me. But a distinguished-looking older couple takes seats next to Quinn. And I know immediately they’ll start chatting to him because he has that effect on anyone above the age of sixty.