This was the first time Nat had ever lived alone. At first, she was afraid she’d feel isolated, but she’d felt far lonelier living with her mom and Derek in their new house in Blaine. She’d been much more solitary in the Bushwick apartment, hiding herself away from her judgmental roommates. Nat savored having her own space. She could watch TV in her underwear while eating Chinese takeout straight from the carton. She could invite Keltie and Ivan over under the auspices of working on a project and then end up drinking white wine until 2:00 a.m. It was the first place Nat could call her own. If she could call it her own.

It was her name on the one-year lease, but, without any discussion, Gabe had handed her a stack of cash for her damage deposit and first month’s rent. When May 1 rolled around, Gabe had taken care of her rent again. He was wealthy, she knew that, but could he afford to house his ex-wife and daughter, his mistress, and himself? She hoped so. Without his support, there would be no way she could afford her new home. When classes finished, she would offer to get a job to help with expenses. Hopefully, he’d tell her it wasn’t necessary. She’d allowed herself to envision a summer spent sketching, painting, enjoying the city with Ivan, when he wasn’t at one of the two jobs he’d taken on to allow himself to stay in New York over the school holidays. (Poor Keltie would be going home to Pittsburgh.) And, of course, Nat would spend time with Gabe.

Skipping down the stairs and through the small tiled lobby, Natalie let herself out onto Twentieth Street. It was only a ten-minute walk to the main school building, heaven after her long subway commute from Bushwick. Afternoon sun was filtering through the leaves of the linden trees, dappling the sidewalk as she strolled to class. As happened often since her relocation to Chelsea, she felt an odd sense of déjà vu. It was different, though . . . more like simultaneously being out of her element and exactly where she was meant to be. The life she was now living felt both surreal and right. Even fated.

Her relationship with Gabe had intensified since she’d been living in the city. It had also normalized. They’d been together for three months now, and they were slipping into a comfortable groove. On Tuesdays or Wednesdays, they went out: to dinner, to the theater, even the opera once (though she’d only pretended to enjoy it). Every Thursday night, around ten, he would come to her apartment on his way home from work. She would set her studying aside, put on something sexy, open a bottle of wine. They would talk—about his day, her day, books, or even politics—and then they would make love. On the weekends, she let him be with his daughter.

Her fascination with the girl had not diminished with time. Perhaps this was due to Gabe’s increased openness about his only child. He had mentioned Violet’s impending graduation ceremonies, a party his ex-wife was going to host at her home somewhere on Long Island. Gabe had wanted his daughter to go to Princeton like he had, but the girl was planning to do volunteer work in Honduras (fucking Honduras, he called it, but Nat admired Violet’s social conscience). The way he spoke of his daughter confounded Nat. Sometimes with affection, often with confusion, even with a sense of loss. Nat’s curiosity had to be slaked.