Two minutes later he adds, Or I could cook for you.

And then: Before you ask: no, not herring.

I stare at the messages for a long time, and then I stand to take a look at the copy machine, which has been beeping because of its usual paper jam. I ball up the offending sheet and throw it in the recycling bin, not quite seeing what’s in front of me.

I answer emails. I call one architect. I smile at the interns and have them help me with research. I wait for . . . I don’t know what I’m waiting for. A sign. For this weird, apocalyptic confusion to dissipate. Come on, Erik didn’t go out with me as a cover for some sort of . . . corporate espionage bullshit, or whatever. This is not a John Grisham book, and what I told Gianna stands: my gut tells me that he would never, ever do anything like it. Unfortunately, I’m not positive my gut isn’t lying to me. I think it might just want to make out with the most attractive man in the world during the halftime of soccer games.

The copy machine beeps three times, and then three more. Apparently, I fixed absolutely nothing.

At five thirty I hear Gianna’s phone ring, and ten minutes later she walks gingerly out of her office, coming to stand in front of my desk. The interns are gone. It’s just her and me in the office.

My insides are iced over. My stomach plummets.

“Guess what project we didn’t get,” she says. Her tone is soft. Gentle. To her credit, not a trace of I Told You So. “And guess what other firm they decided to go with.”

I close my eyes. I cannot believe this. I don’t want to believe this.

“The Milton people said they got another pitch today. Similar sustainability. Lower costs, though, since it’s a bigger firm. They asked me if I could match their offer, and I told them I couldn’t.”

My eyes stay closed. I don’t open them for a long, long time. Everything is spinning. I’m just trying to stay still. “I . . . I fucked up,” I say, barely a whisper. I’m crying. Of course I’m crying. I’m fucking stupid and my fucking heart is broken and of fucking course I’m fucking crying.

“You couldn’t have known, Sadie.”

The copy machine beeps again, six times in a row. I nod at Gianna, watch her walk away, and think about broken things, broken things that sometimes cannot be fixed.

Eleven

Present

I rack my brain, trying to remember whether during our dinner Erik ever mentioned taking acting classes. I want to say no, and let’s be honest, it would seem a tiny bit out of character. And yet, if I didn’t know what he did, I could almost buy it. I could almost believe, from the way he’s blinking confusedly at me, that he has no idea what I’m talking about.