Henri had entered my name into his mobile and written, In case of emergency, on a slip of paper stuck into his passport, and had even put my name in his living will. Which all came as just as much of a shock to me as the phone call from the police fifteen days ago. The police officers—an awkward fat man and a fidgety red-haired woman—were quite annoyed when I told them that I wasn’t Henri’s partner or fiancée or cousin, and that I had last seen him about two years ago, at about quarter to nine on the morning of October 2, 2014.

I love you. I want you, forever and beyond, in this life and every other.

I don’t want you.

And then I slapped his face and threw him out.

“Get lost!” I shouted, while what I really wanted to say was, “Stay!”

“Get out!” I roared, while inwardly begging, “Love me!”

“Get lost, for hell’s sake!” really meant, “Go before I humiliate myself any further!”

He left.

I’ll never forget his face when he turned around one last time by the door. It was as if he couldn’t fathom this departure and was looking back at the flip side of our love and wondering how he’d happened to cross the boundary between the two. Such desperation in his eyes.

I almost cried, “Stay!” and “It doesn’t matter, you don’t have to love me.” I’d have meant it. My love was greater than my desire to be loved, and it was worse that he didn’t want my love than not being loved in return. I don’t have a clue if that’s normal.

For two years I missed Henri every day, then I met Wilder Glass, who desires me, who does want me. I’m no longer the same woman who loved Henri Skinner so much that she was ready to spend this life and every other with him. No, that old me is an empty shell, and the thought of it sends ripples of shame over my skin.

Yet here I am. The woman he didn’t want but whose name he nevertheless put in his living will. I’m the person for emergencies, for dying but not for life. What the fuck?

Wilder doesn’t know I’ve been coming to the Wellington every day for the past two weeks. Some of the time he thinks I’m at readings or with agents, at others I’m meeting promising authors, genre writers and utopians. I’ve a lot on my plate as a publisher, and so Wilder doesn’t inquire and he’s never jealous. Wilder David Stephen Ptolemy Glass has too much class, too expensive an education, too much sense, and far too enviable a reputation in literary circles ever to be jealous of anyone.