Sarah had replied:If you keep making these strict rules for people, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.
He hadn’t written her back.
A few weeks later, she sent him a joke about rewatchingHowl’s Moving Castleand realizing she had become less like the earnest heroine Sophie and more like the grumpy fire demon Calcifer, and he never answered. Fair enough, she thought. Maybe he hadn’t seen the film.
A month later, she sent him a text about the opening of her babies show in New York City, where it was having a brief run at a sister gallery of the Kristman.
That’s great. Congratulations.
Thanks, she replied.
Then nothing. She realized he had stopped writing her entirely. It was always her reaching out to him.
She asked Paul whether Ren was okay, and he replied, “I think so. He’s having some family stuff. Why?” She mentioned that he had stopped texting her, and Paul said that he was probably very busy.
“It’s tricky for him,” Paul told her. “Living with the in-laws. I think he’s working part-time, too.”
Sarah wondered a little if Paola had told him not to text her…if Paola had told him not to text any women. Would Ren admit it if that were so?
A week later, perhaps after talking to Paul, Ren had texted back:hope you’re well.
You too, she wrote.Everything okay?
Then nothing.
Sometime later, she wrote him on his birthday.Happy birthday, Ren.
Thanks, he answered.
It was so flat and polite compared to the way he used to write her that she felt embarrassed, like she was being sent a message. Had she crossed a line somewhere? Flirted without meaning to? She went through their old texts for a smoking gun where she had messed up. Nothing seemed too bad, but almost anything could be read as flirtatious if you squinted your eyes and stared long enough at it.
So Sarah waited for him to write her again. She would let him make the first move this time. She didn’t want to do anything that would threaten his wife or his marriage. So she waited, and waited, and waited.
He wrote her a brief, perfunctory note on her birthday, but that was it.
After a year had passed with nothing more than birthday exchanges, she stopped asking Paul for updates about Ren. It hurt to know that he was staying in touch with Paul and not her. But now, arriving in this strange hotel in Las Vegas for Paul and Trish’s wedding festivities, Sarah knew she would finally see Ren again. She wondered how he was doing, how his marriage was going, why he had stopped texting with no explanation. She was hurt but had no right to be, which was the most mortifying form of sadness.
As if on cue, just as she was walking down the hallway to her hotel room, awkwardly juggling her key card, dress bag and wheeled luggage, Ren Durand stepped out of a room immediately in front of her, closing the door softly behind him.
His appearance was unusually unkempt, his hair mussed and clothes wrinkled.
“Ren?”
He spun to look at her, his expression going flat. “Sarah. Hi.” His voice was low.
“What’s up?”
Then the door swung open behind him and a pretty red-headed woman was standing there in a t-shirt and silky pajama shorts, her hair in a chaotic tangle. “Weren’t you going to leave me your number?” she asked.
Ren’s eyes shot to the woman. “Uh…Right. Yes. Sure.”
Sarah watched him do a pat-down of his outfit as he searched around for his cell phone.
“Well, I’ll just…” Sarah said, waving vaguely, and kept walking. Her room was only two doors away, and she could practically feel Ren’s mortification radiating toward her as he spoke to the woman in low tones.
“Here. And what’s yours?”
“I mean, I don’t have to call you,” came the young woman’s irritated reply before Sarah managed to unlock the door to her room. “But I do come to town a lot.” Sarah slipped inside and shut the door as quickly as she could.
