“Help?”

“Yes.”

“Help? Help with what exactly?”

“Look”—he shook his head—“I don’t know. It has crossed my mind that it might help. If you could make a film…”

Despite her being too furious to speak, she stared at him, moved by his desperation.

“Forget it.”

She nodded.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

“That’s clear.”

“It’s a suggestion that—” He stopped himself.

“What?”

He shook his head and she waited it out. His expression said this was her doing, that she was forcing him to say something they’d both feel uncomfortable hearing out loud. “Look, I’m surprised she hasn’t suggested this before now. She’s your agent. It’s a suggestion. It doesn’t mean you have to write the thing.”

“I know that. I know she’s my agent.” She turned toward the trees.

“Where are you going?”

She didn’t know. She turned farther into the park. They’d been back together over a year now, and the memories she’d held on to from their two-year separation were overwhelmingly the sad ones, marked with shame and regret. The men she’d encountered—they’d been placed inside the narrowest stairwells and smallest bathrooms and corners of her memory palace at the end of a long dark hallway. It wasn’t as if she never walked down that hall and peered inside, but doing so had become depressing. But with a spike of righteous indignation, she remembered: it hadn’t all been sad.

“Sarah.” He raised his voice; she slowed down but didn’t stop; he caught up to her side.

“I’m not interested in my own stories. You know that.”

“Maybe you should be. Or maybe you should stop pretending you want to make another film. Maybe you should—” He stopped himself, shook his head.

“What?”

“Pivot.”

“Pivot?”

“Instead of putting yourself in the position of lying to Caroline every year. Instead of being in a constant state of not doing what you think you’re supposed to do.”

She surprised herself by not lashing out. “You’re right,” she said softly. She took a deep, exaggerated breath and slowly let the air out. “I should have taken that foundation job.”

“I, too, was a storyteller,” he said lightly. “Remember that? I won a couple of prizes. I had the grant. I thought I’d be an auteur.”

“I thought so, too.”

“I pivoted.”

“You did.” She nodded, bit down on the inside of her mouth. “One of us had to. It’s not like either one of us had any reason to think we could actually make films for a living, right? I mean, who gets to do that?”

“I’m not saying I didn’t want to pivot, but—”

“You supported us. You’re still supporting us. You can’t have any idea how grateful I am.” Her voice sounded raw and too intense. “Also,” she added, lightening up, “you happen to like money.”

“Everyone likes money.”

“Some people like it more than others.”

He ran his hands through his hair again and over his face. “It’s work.”