He didn’t answer, nor did I expect him to. I just wanted him to know I wasn’t resentful or furious or sobbing on my desk . . . even if I’d sobbed a little.

In a way, his engagement freed me. I didn’t have to justify or prove myself, because Noah wasn’t out there, watching and waiting and judging anymore. I relaxed, not knowing my heart had been clenched with tension until it loosened. Something softened in me. Now when I saw that New York confidence, when I read about Aneni’s latest show, I felt the familiar sense of wonder, but it was no longer infected by envy. Maybe I’d never be them, those brilliant, sharp-edged, confident New Yorkers, but it was okay. I was doing just fine.

I got a couple of raises at St. Catherine’s—Sister Mary seemed to like me. Teaching was more fun than I’d expected, introducing the kids to Picasso and Seurat, Jackson Pollock and Georgia O’Keeffe. I was told I was loved multiple times throughout the day, and was the beneficiary of many hugs. At least once a month, a kindergartener or first grader would propose. It was good for the ego, all those bright eyes and happy faces, and it was nice to leave them, too, and return to my lovely apartment in the armpit of the city.

Though I was embarrassed by their utter vapidity, the couch paintings were profitable. I could bang out one of those in a couple of hours, depending on the medium and size. If it looked like something you’d buy at Target, so be it. I still got to sign my name and deposit a sizable check. I took down my website, since nothing I was doing needed to be immortalized in cyberspace.

I saw friends often and enjoyed the nights when I was alone, despite the urge to machete my way through Times Square on the way home every night. (Tourists taking pictures of neon signs should be thrown in jail. There. I was a true New Yorker.) I even dated a little. A slurry of first dates, one regrettable hookup, then a nice person named Sam. We dated for a few months—he was a funny guy who did something with the waste water of New York City. I liked him very much. We never had a bad time together. One night, when we’d been together long enough that we didn’t wonder if we were going to spend the weekend together, he said (in bed, no less), “I think I’m falling in love with you, Sadie.”

I replied with, “Oh, wow, that’s so . . . flattering.”

Thus ended Sam and me. I was grateful he broke it off before we got more entangled in each other’s lives. Breaking another heart was not something I could handle. And besides . . . I think I’m falling in love with you? Kind of tepid. I’d never had to ponder that with Noah. It was, to quote the great Stevie Wonder, signed, sealed, delivered. Done.