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The New Yorkeris to blame for the ugly way we parted.
The last time I saw him, we’d had an argument.
I’d been pestering him about canceling our newspaper subscription. He never touched it, and I’m allergic to world news and the anxiety it induces. I grew up frugal, and didn’t like how Paul threw money away for no reason other than he possessed it. He made a show of opening the paper that night, read half an article, put it aside, and promised he would read the rest when he returned from his Paris trip.
Don’t close the newspaper. I’ll get back to it,he’d warned.By God I will. The only reason I’m not taking it with me is because Phil always wants to talk baseball when we take flights together.
I never did. It stayed put. Each new paper I receive every day is rolled up and waiting in a pile in the pantry for Paul to arrive and read it. Like he might materialize one day, stride in here, and ask me what he missed these past eight months.
Pacing across the apartment, I run my fingers over the books on the shelves—a mixture of my favorite classics and his Jack Reacher—and the stainless steel appliances we chose together.
Reality nibbles its way into my gut. I can’t afford to keep this place. Even though Paul had paid off the mortgage before we got married (“Bad investment,” he argued, but I wanted to live in a place that was completely my own), and I inherited the property as his wife, there are too many bills piling up each month.
The property tax, parking, food, health care, and transportation make me dip into the insurance money I received every month since he passed.
Paul and I had signed an iron-clad prenup upon his parents’ request, which means I’m not as well off as people might suspect. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, because the idea of ever parting ways with Paul was crazy to me.
It’s going to suck to sell and move away and leave all his memories behind.
Maybe this new role as Nina inThe Seagullwill help keep me afloat, but I doubt it. It’s just a one-year contract, and not a Broadway gig. No big money to be made.
The doorbell chimes. I jump back, taken by surprise, before remembering I ordered Paul’s favorite. Banh xeo and cha ca. I hurry to the door, tip the DoorDasher, and crack open a cheap bottle of red wine. I set two plates in front of the TV on the coffee table. I pour Paul a glass, too, and mound food on his plate, taking all the baby corn out manually because he hated it. Even though I’m starving, I wait until Netflix loads before taking the first bite. It was a pet peeve of his.
At least have the manners to skip the intro, baby doll. The food’s not going to run away.
Am I being unhinged right now, serving a full plate to the ghost of my dead husband? Absolutely. Do I care very much? Nope. It’s one of the rare perks of living completely alone. I don’t have to tuck my crazy in.
“Tonight, my dear, we’re going to watchThe Witcher. I know it’s not your cuppa, but Henry Cavill is mine, and there is nothing you can do about it,” I joke, starting up the first episode as I take a bite of the fluffy stuffed rice pancake. “Executive decision. Should’ve been more careful. That way you’d have a say in the matter.”
Wednesdays were our Vietnamese takeout and TV nights. Paul would pick up the food on his way back from work while I cleaned the apartment, got the groceries, and ironed his clothes. I keep the tradition alive, even though he isn’t here anymore. Well, minus ironing his clothes. That part, I don’t even pretend to miss.
I make idle conversation with Paul’s side of the sofa while I eat.
How was your day?
Mine was pretty good, actually. I went to an audition and got it! Thank you for always believing in me. For telling me I was going to make it.
My role as Belle died a swift death the night Paul passed away. The next morning, Chrissy called the theater and told them about mysituation, and I dropped out of the show. The loss felt miniscule in the grand scheme of things, but months after, I sometimes wondered if it would have been possible to push through. Maybe if I’d had something to keep me going, I wouldn’t be so numb.
When the episode ends, I clear the coffee table and wash the plates. Double-lock and bolt the door.
In the kitchen, I fill myself three tall glasses of water and drink all of them. I like to wake up at least a couple of times each night. I do a little inspection around the apartment, making sure I’m really alone. I’ve always been scared of sleeping by myself. At Julliard, I had a bucketload of roommates, and before that, I shared a room with both my sisters. There’s no doubt I’m not good at being alone.
I turn the lights off on my way to the bedroom but stop in front of a door when I reach the hallway.
Paul’s office. The door is locked. I know where the key is, but I haven’t used it since he’s been gone.
Back when he was alive, Paul spent countless hours in his home office. I’ve seen it hundreds of times from the inside, when I came in to fetch him coffee, or water, or just to remind him it was time to take a break. It’s just another office, with piles of documents, an Apple screen, and an unholy amount of filing cabinets.
He had asked me not to open it whenever he locked it.
Trade secrets, baby doll. Plus, I kind of like the idea of having an island of my own. A private place that only belongs to me.
And me, blindly loyal, unreservedly faithful, decided to never break this rule. Even now, after all these months, the office is still closed.
Waiting for me to betray him, just like he allegedly betrayed me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
