“That’s so not true!” Her voice was still thick from crying. “It’s the only thing I have left that’s worth living for!”

“That’s a little melodramatic. Even for an actor.”

“Mr. Z, I’m sorry . . .” She was going to start crying again.

Another pause.

“Please,” she said, “just say something.”

“I don’t see how that would change anything.”

“I want to go back to before. When we could talk. When you said I could call you to talk about anything.”

“And you appreciate that now? In retrospect?”

“I could come to your house.”

“Please don’t. It’s best not to burden my spouse with my extramural obligations.”

“Why are you talking like this?” A lump caught in her throat. Not him, too.

“I’m in a meeting right now.”

“At school?”

“No, not at school. Look, I really shouldn’t be on the phone.”

“Can we talk though? Later?”

“I’ll send you a text. I have to go now.” In the background, she heard murmuring voices and recognized the familiar screech of chair legs on institutional linoleum.

Less than a minute after they hung up, Rosemary’s phone beeped. She breathlessly scrolled to its text screen:

“C U @ end of St Cls Ln. 5 PM. Lets hv dinner . . . I MISS U”

Her tears evaporated.

“Where’s Mira?”

Mrs. Park shrugged, her eyes fixed on the TV screen, fingers cracking open chestnuts and popping them into her mouth. Her favorite Korean soap was on—a period weep-a-thon about an insufferable maid who kept the imperial household together with all her cooking.

“I heard you two fighting earlier.”

Mrs. Park shrugged again.

As she walked down Santa Claus Lane, Rosemary noted that every house on the street—with the exception of the gay writer’s, Kate Ireland’s and theirs—had some kind of Halloween adornment. Foam skeletons hanging from rafters, plastic pumpkins doubling as lamps, rag-doll witches sprouting black tinsel hair. She was reminded again of Arik’s remark that she felt like the inside of a jack-o’-lantern.

This year, without Mr. Park, their front porch sat bare. Last year, when their father was still alive, the girls had badgered him into buying a couple of pumpkins, and together they’d carved toothy smiles into them. The girls were surprised by his deftness with a hunting knife, even as he complained that Halloween was a pagan festival.

Rosemary heard the Nissan Maxima whirring up the street at five sharp. The recent rain had melted away the smog and the whole neighborhood was given a new, glossy alertness—Mr. Z’s car looked especially shiny, like it’d been driven right out of a commercial. Rosemary opened the door and sank into the passenger seat. She sucked in the musky fumes of his car deodorant and was ready to go to sleep right there.

“Hadn’t heard from you in weeks. How’s the honeymoon going?”

She pursed her lips.