In total, he ended up finding three places across Brooklyn and Manhattan. We went to each of them and he introduced me as “the brilliant debut author Chani Horowitz,” which wasn’t meaningless since quite a few booksellers recognized him. Afterward we went to my favorite Italian restaurant, a little cash-only place with homemade limoncello and vegetable lasagna.

It’s one of my favorite memories from our marriage.

But even then, Jeremy had never looked at me the way that Gabe is looking at me now. With an expression of immense pride. And awe.

It should make me feel good.

It doesn’t.

Because all I can think about is what Jeremy said that night.

“It’s the only reason you have a career at all.”

“It” being Gabe. The assumption that I’d slept with him. The tawdry nature of my article. The public’s obsession with the private lives of celebrities.

I’d taken full advantage of that when I was twenty-six. I’d made excuses for it. I needed the work. It was a good story. I was entitled to tell it.

I feel differently now.

It isn’t just that I now know how Gabe felt about it—that he’d been surprised and hurt by what I’d chosen to include. It’s that Jeremy’s words have since congealed each and every uncertainty that has been swirling inside me since the article was published.

It was one thing to ignore it when strangers online or shitty up-and-coming actors were telling me that I was an unprofessional, lying slut. It was another when the person I’d slept next to every night for almost seven years believed it too.

My career—my success—wasn’t because I was a good writer. It was because I’d latched onto Gabe like one of those suckerfish that follow sharks around, gorging themselves on their castoffs.

And if I tried to disengage, I’d starve.

It feels like that now—sitting in a bookstore that Gabe owns, signing books that he’s promoting.

Would I ever know if my work was good enough on its own?

Would I ever know if I was good enough?

The bell above the front door jingles. Teddy—who had positioned herself at my feet—perks up, head cocked, ears raised.

“We’re here,” a female voice says from the front of the store.

Teddy rises and follows the sound.

“We’re back here,” Gabe says. “Signing books.”

“Hi, Teddy Bear,” another voice—a younger one—says. “Are you a good girl?”

“Signing books?” the first voice asks as it approaches. “Oh. Right.”

Gabe’s best friend is the spitting image of him. Dark hair with artful grays streaked throughout, a strong jawline, and that wholesome, sturdy Montana vibe. She’s wearing jeans and flannel. The scarf around her neck looks handmade.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m Lauren. Gabe’s sister.”

I stand and hold out my hand.

“Chani,” I say.