Imani pulled her chin into her neck, displaying the indignation that she didn’t actually feel. The truth was that both Melissa and Nate had loved to work a room. Imani could picture Melissa at a dinner party, moving from guest to guest, asking if anyone needed anything while making elaborate, flattering, and often innuendo-filled introductions to both men and women. You don’t know Philip? Well, let me introduce you to the man of the hour or hors, right? Hors d’oeuvres. I’m being punny because small plates are the specialty of Banque Gauche, Philip’s restaurant. You can’t judge a man by the size of his plate, though. Just his Michelin stars. High reviews, this one. Isn’t that right, Imani? Imani Banks. Philip’s better half, but my girl. Keeps me sane, and not only because she’s a celebrated psychotherapist. I don’t know what I’d do without her living among all these neurotic New Yorkers.

Imani believed that such coquetry was confined to party conversation—at least on Melissa’s part. Though Melissa flirted, she was always checking over her shoulder to see if Nate was noticing. Imani assumed that flirting with others was a game for them. The way they kept their marriage interesting. They’d each endeavored to attract just enough attention to make sure that they held each other’s own.

“A penchant for holding court isn’t against any marriage laws,” Imani said.

Philip put the kimchi back in the fridge and slammed the door. The sound echoed off the high ceilings.

“We can disagree without you waking the kids.” Imani hissed.

“It’s not that…” Philip rubbed his forehead. Whenever her husband had trouble saying something, he massaged the words into his brain.

“I’m going to close the restaurant.”

“What?”

Though Imani had heard him, she assumed some mistake. Banque Gauche hadn’t been doing well amid all the restaurant shutdowns, of course. But it wasn’t an ordinary eatery that would go belly-up after a few bad months. Her husband’s place was an institution. Michelin-starred tourist destinations around for a decade-plus didn’t simply close down. They perished only after prolonged downturns that left plenty of time for estate planning.

“I’ll keep the kitchen open for delivery,” Philip continued. “But the staff isn’t earning enough in tips to make a living, and I can’t keep paying folks to wait on nonexistent customers.”

Imani suddenly understood the source of Philip’s tears. He was sad for Ava, surely, but he was devastated for himself. Banque Gauche was her husband’s baby, sprung like Athena from his frontal cortex, made entirely in his image. It was the only thing that could compete with Philip’s feelings for his family, and win.