“Yes, you do. I’ll pay for the apartment until the end of the summer,” he continued, taking a sip of wine. “In the fall, you might want to move into campus housing. Or you could take over the rent payments. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding another man on the website to support you.”

It was like he’d punched her. Or spat in her face. “I don’t want another man,” she said, tears falling from her eyes. “I want you.”

“I’m sorry, Natalie,” he said, sounding firm, adamant, like a lawyer. “It’s over.” He stood then and tossed a stack of bills on the table. He was paying for lunch. “My driver will take you back to your apartment.”

She watched him stride out of the restaurant.

33

The Reason

Nat lay in bed for four days, barely eating, rarely sleeping, crying incessantly. It may have been indulgent, but she had nothing to do, nowhere to be, and no one who cared about her. Her isolation would have been overwhelming, had she cared about her mental health. But she didn’t. She couldn’t think about pulling herself together, about moving forward. All that mattered to her was Gabe.

Between the wall and her bed, discarded and forgotten after a lovemaking session, she found his tie. It was dark gray, with a dense pattern of leaves, vines, and flowers, reminiscent of Victorian wallpaper. (It was, in fact, a design by the English artist and philosopher William Morris.) Nat kept it draped around her neck, kissed it, dried her tears with it. At one point, she considered hanging herself with it, the symbolism achingly delicious. But who would find her body? A neighbor, likely, when she’d started to decompose and stink up the building. And Gabe would never even be alerted.

Her feelings toward him vacillated wildly. When she woke in the mornings, she pined for his love, sending him desperate texts pleading for him to talk things through, not to give up the beautiful connection they’d shared. By midday, she’d begun to negotiate, suggesting they discuss redefining their relationship, perhaps stepping back, slowing things down. In the evenings, after she’d had some wine or vodka, she’d be consumed by anger and loathing. That’s when she’d call him, leaving venomous, slightly slurred messages.

“You can’t just tell someone you love them and then buy them off with a fucking necklace!”

“You’re a liar! And a monster! I hate you!”

“I’m going to find your daughter and tell her everything. She deserves to know what kind of man her father is.”

Gabe did not respond to any of her overtures.

It was remorse that finally got her out of bed and into the shower at five forty-five that morning. Light was peeking through the fog of anger and desperation, and she realized her actions had been melodramatic. Gabe would think she was pathetic. Or psychotic. And his opinion mattered to her. She was still hopeful for a reconciliation. Perhaps when Violet was a little older, had dealt with her issues, had absconded to college or an NGO in South America, Nat and Gabe could be together again.