“Well, yes, that too, maybe,” she said. “But you’re good to the core, Hayes Montgomery. I know that, and don’t you forget it.”

She smiled at me, one of her serious smiles that she didn’t offer up too often.

“Maybe she knows someone,” Eleanor said, her brain shifting back into work mode. “For our space. She’s a designer. She definitely has contacts.”

She turned to her computer but then twisted around toward me almost immediately. “Or!” She waved her index finger to signal that a brilliant idea had just arrived. “We could just hire her,” she said. “Money is better than an apology, right? Plus, it could be cool to work with an up-and-coming designer.”

“Are you insane?” I tightened my grip around my coffee cup. “I asked if I should send a quick apology, not hire her.”

Eleanor shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Later that afternoon, long after Eleanor had grabbed her canvas duffel bag and hustled out of the office, I walked home, the air muggy but slightly cool, the city already emptied out. I plotted my weekend in my head: work, run, work. Central Park would be quiet, which would be nice. Maybe get my ass in gear and hang some art. (Franny had been right about my apartment lacking personality.) Watch the Yankees–Red Sox series. I could order food. I’d check in with Perrine.

There was plenty to do. And I’d always told myself that I didn’t mind the quiet, thought I was built for independence, that from isolation grew ideas and innovation. I’d accepted it as the consequence of a failed marriage. It was what I deserved, even, for not noticing things had gone off the rails until it was too late to save our relationship.

But recently, the quiet of my life was starting to feel too quiet. I had people who loved me and whom I loved too, and yet every time I got home to an empty apartment at the end of the day, the loneliness that whispered at my back turned into a roar.

Maybe, I reasoned, as I turned onto Central Park West, that was what had been so thrilling, so maddening about that morning a few weeks ago on the subway. And why, even though I’d said a bunch of dumb stuff to Franny in our interview together, I couldn’t push her out of my thoughts. It had been a jolt of something frustrating and exhilarating all at once. For a second, my life had skipped a beat. And I’d liked that feeling. I’d liked it a lot.

*  *  *

“What’s this?” Eleanor stared at the folder I’d left on her desk. It was the day after the long weekend, barely 8 a.m., but we were already operating at warp speed.

“A list of possible designers. Some images of their work. There’s a really cool woman in there who did Tesla’s new office.”