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I try to muster pleasure from the news. Some kind of contentment or something that imitates it. But my body is numb from the outside, empty from the inside. I feel paper thin. So light, so weightless, I could be carried with the next gust of wind.
Shed a tear, Winnie.
I’d always been such a good crier. Any occasion, good or bad, prompted the waterworks to start.
I’m going to work! Leave the house! Attend rehearsal! Memorize lines!
I’m going to have to be a fully functioning human being. But somehow, the only emotion I can muster is fear.
“You’re going to be Nina,” Chrissy wails, undeterred by my silence. “Can you believe it? Every actress’s wet dream.”
She isn’t wrong. Since my Juilliard days as an aspiring actress, playing the role of Nina has been a fantasy for most of my fellow students. The beautiful, tragic, fame-hungry girl from Chekhov’s playThe Seagull.The woman who represents the loss of innocence, emotional damage, whose dreams were crushed into fairy dust.
So fitting. Of course I got the role. Iamthe role.
“Nina,” I breathe out, closing my eyes as herds of office folk rush past me, by me,throughme. I’m caught in a wave of bodies. “I’m going to be Nina.”
To feel the stage under my feet, the bright lights pounding on my eyes, and their warmth. To smell the sweat of other people again. Steal bites of energy bars between rehearsals. All that I dreamed about when I packed a small suitcase and left Mulberry Creek.
“I know things have been difficult, honey.” Chrissy drops her voice. “But I think this is the beginning of the end. The caterpillar will soon become a butterfly. You earned it, baby girl. Spread those wings. Fly high.”
I nod as if she can see me. I need a hug. I wish someone were here to wrap their arms around me. I also need buttermilk biscuits. Lots and lots of Ma’s buttermilk biscuits.
“Tell me you’re at least a little bit happy.” The plea in Chrissy’s voice is unmistakable. “You sound like you’re attending your own funeral.”
“Are you kiddin’ me? I’m happy as a clam!” I swivel artfully to avoid stepping over a tiny Chihuahua rushing alongside its owner, lying through my teeth.
“Lucas, the director, was so impressed with your performance. He called itelectric. They should get back to me with the schedule and contract in the next few days.” There is a pause. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m all about business today. Would you like me to come over tonight? We can Hallmark and chill.”
Chrissy and I both like our movies the same way we like our pizza—with extra cheese and cheap red wine on the side. Normally, I’d be all over the offer. But today, I’d like to be alone. This new job symbolizes my return to the outside world. I need to digest it all.
“I think I’ll have a quiet one in tonight, if you don’t mind.” I smile, out of habit, to people on the street as I make my journey to my apartment block. They never smile back, not in this zip code, but it’s a force of habit I find hard to break.
“You got it, Win. Just wanted to put the offer out there. Enjoy your night.”
I kill the call and scroll through my phone to keep my mind busy. I have one unread message from Pablo.
Hey, sorry I missed your call again. I’m available if you want to talk.
It was sent at four thirty in the morning.
Pablo has been avoiding me for the past eight months. So does the rest of the staff of Silver Arrow Capital. Chip, Dahlia from HR, and Phil, Paul’s best friend. They’ve all been cagey about what they know—or don’t know—regarding Paul and Grace’s relationship. I still have no clue what my husband and that woman were doing together that day when their lives ended.
It’s easy to speculate Paul and Grace had an affair, but something in me refuses to believe he’d so callously betray me.
Paul wasn’t an angel, but he wasn’t a villain either. Besides, he loved me—I know he did. And he’d never indicated Grace was someone he even liked. On the contrary. Many times I found myself chiding him when he accused her of being self-centered and high maintenance when he returned home from work.
Never met a bigger headache in my life. That Corbin guy must be a glutton for punishment. All she does is whine and make demands.
Over the last few months, I’ve been trying to piece together the reason why Paul got on that flight with Grace. Did he truly give her a ride? Or was this salacious? I think back to our conversations, go through his things in our apartment trying to spot clues.
I haven’t found any evidence of an affair so far. Nothing to raise my suspicion. Everything he owned and kept close was so innocent. Photo albums, knickknacks, his stamp collection, signed baseball tees.
Sometimes I toy with the idea of calling that pompous creature Arsène Corbin. I bet he holds all the answers to my questions. For all his many glaring faults, he seems like a resourceful man. The kind who is quick to play catch-up.
I have no doubt he found out everything there is to know about the circumstances that led Grace and Paul to be on the same plane that claimed their lives.
But I can’t bring myself to ask him for a favor. Now, if he were the one to approach me, that’d be a whole different ballgame. Wouldn’t that be somethin’?
