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That invisible carapace was Tristan’s money and influence, I realize now. What had it cost him all these years to keep my identity private, to scrub our history together from the internet and publicly available databases?
I’d always taken my privacy for granted. Even when I spared a thought for my miraculous freedom from story seeking journalists and unauthorized biographers, I assumed Tristan didn’t talk about me because he was embarrassed about our brief marriage.
Even now, I don’t want to consider that he deliberately protected me.
That maybe he still cares about me.
Because then I’d have to consider how much I still care about him.
Have you talked to Matt?
The text from Marie appears in my notifications, and I suppress a desperate sigh. Poor Matt. I unlock my screen and type a quick reply.
He’s not picking up.
This is totally not a good way for him to find out.
I know.
You home yet?
In a cab.
Okay. Maybe just ignore it all and it’ll go away. Tristan will make it go away.
He’d better. It’s all his fault.
She doesn’t ask me why I was kissing my ex in the first place, and for that at least I’m grateful. I don’t want to face that question yet, or ever.
At my apartment, I pour myself a glass of wine and after taking my shoes off and curling into a corner of the couch, I try to call Matt again. As I wait for him to answer, the buzzer sounds. It’s Matt. Relieved, I let him into the building, then unlock my door.
He appears at the door in just a few moments, and I step back to let him into the apartment, noticing that he’s wearing a suit, like he’s just left work. He looks the same as he always does, except that his air of exuberant boyishness is somewhat dimmed, like I reached out and snuffed out some of his light with my carelessness.
“Hey, Cora.” His lips twist on my name. Not with scorn, just sadness.
“Hey.” My voice is soft.
He walks into my living room, looking around like he’s seeing the place for the first time, even though we’ve shared many intimate moments here.
Is he questioning what those moments meant to me?
“Matt…”
He whirls around to face me. “Explain,” he demands.
There’s an unfamiliar anger in his eyes and his voice.
Can I blame him? Isn’t it understandable under the circumstances?
Explain.
Where do I even start?A long time ago, in a lovely city, during a hot, perfect summer, I fell in love with a guy with a heartbreakingly beautiful smile.
“It’s complicated,” I reply. That part, at least, is true.
Matt’s face tightens with something like scorn. “Why don’t you make it as simple as you can, and start at the beginning?”
“Matt…” I take a step toward him, and he stiffens. I sigh. “We were married. We separated. Got divorced. I forgot about him.”
