But it was Noah’s face I really studied. His hair was cut short. Why on earth would he cut that beautiful, curly black hair? He looked—he was—older. I blew up the picture to see if he was really smiling, if his dark eyes crinkled and sparkled in that special way I remembered, and shit, yes, he did look happy.

My wild boy.

Tears spilled out of my eyes, surprising me. Obviously, I could’ve been his wife. I’d said no for all good reasons. He was uncompromising, and that wasn’t a good sign for a marriage. We didn’t want the same things, no matter how much we loved each other. So of course he was moving on. He deserved happiness, and I felt a hot, fast burn of shame that I hadn’t been able to give it to him. No. I’d broken his heart instead.

Then again, he’d broken mine, too. It was a mutual devastation.

So I would be glad for him. I took my unjustified sense of betrayal and stuffed it down deep. Before I could talk myself out of it, I took out my pastels and drew him a little card with a heart-shaped cloud on it and wrote, Congratulations on your engagement. I’m happy for you, Noah. I didn’t sign it. I didn’t have to.

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.