How does she know Emmett Mercier was there? I didn’t say a thing to anyone at the gallery. He and I didn’t speak again after I walked away from him. He stayed for a little while longer, and perhaps he would have wanted to continue where we left off, but I never gave him the chance. I kept myself busy, glued to Aaron’s side for a good portion of the evening, trying to convince myself I was merely trying to do my job when in fact I was taking the coward’s way out.

I don’t know why our paths crossed tonight. It’s not as if it’s a common occurrence. I haven’t seen Emmett since he left St. John’s—actually, that’s not really true. I have seen him online and in newspapers. Trying to shield myself from news of the Mercier Family and GHV is an impossible task. The Atlantic and The New York Times always seem to be running a story or posting a photo of them on social media.

He aged exactly as I thought he would, like a vintage wine kept in perfect conditions. I don’t know why that upsets me. I don’t want him to suffer, though I do hope he’s had at least one real heartache along the way, some girl who really put him in his place. I imagined being that girl once, when I was incredibly young and unbearably naive. I can’t believe I dreamed about him when we were at St. John’s. I was still a child then, but he was so handsome no one could blame me. I think of the picture I kept under my pillow, of the day everyone found out about it. What a fool.

Margaret runs the brush down the length of my hair again, being patient with me as I smile timidly and shrug. “Just the usual. Why do you ask?”

“I had hopes that perhaps Royce would have attended.”

I deflate with so much relief at the mention of Royce that my shoulders actually sag. I lose two inches of height. I’m glad that’s where her mind was heading. It’s no one’s business that I ran into Emmett today, and I have no plans to share it with my grandmother or Margaret. My grandmother would only use the opportunity to remind me of my future, or worse, she’d get it into her head to cut my hours at Morgan’s altogether to avoid a second encounter.

“He’ll be here tomorrow, won’t he?”

She smiles, though it seems half-hearted. “Yes, he did confirm, though it was your grandmother who arranged the meeting…”

“I don’t mind,” I assure her, trying to discern what she could be playing at.

“So then you’re okay with everything?”

I think of my cigarette down on the sidewalk, the lies I feed myself in the morning. You’re happy. You’re okay. No life is better than the life you’re living.

“More than okay,” I say with a big smile. “Why don’t you help me pick out something to wear for the luncheon tomorrow before I go to bed?”