I’m already laughing before the message is over. My mother has gotten lost in New York a number of times, not just once. And it’s always because she refuses to take a cab. She insists that she can navigate public transportation, even though she was born and raised in Los Angeles and therefore has no real sense of how any two modes of transportation intersect.

Also, I have always hated it when she called me her dumpling baby. Mostly because we both know it’s a reference to how fat I was as a child; I looked like an overstuffed dumpling.

By the time her message is over and I’m done texting her back (So excited to see you! Will meet you at the airport. Just tell me which one), I’m at the subway station.

I could easily make the argument to myself that I should listen to David’s voice mail when I get to Brooklyn. And I almost do. I very nearly do. But instead, I stand outside the stairwell and hit play.

“Hey,” he says, his gravelly voice so familiar. “I texted you. But I didn’t hear back. I . . . I’m in New York. I’m home. I mean, I’m here at the apartment. Our apartment. Or . . . your apartment. Whatever. I’m here. Waiting for you. I know it’s short notice. But don’t you think we should talk about things? Don’t you think there’s more to say? I’m just rambling now, so I’m going to go. But hopefully I’ll see you soon.”

When the message is over, I run down the stairs, swipe my card, and slip onto the train just as it’s leaving. I pack myself into the crowded car and try to calm down as we roar through each stop.

What the hell is he doing home?

I get off the train and make my way to the street. I put my coat on when I hit the fresh air. Brooklyn feels colder than Manhattan tonight.

I try not to run to my apartment. I try to remain calm, to remain composed. There is no need for you to rush, I tell myself. Besides, I don’t want to show up out of breath, and I really don’t want to ruin my hair.

I head through the front entrance and up the stairs to my apartment.

I slip my key into my door.

And there he is.

David.

In my kitchen, cleaning dishes as if he lives here.

“Hi,” I say, staring at him.

He looks exactly the same. Blue eyes, thick lashes, cropped hair. He is wearing a maroon heathered T-shirt and dark gray jeans.

When I met him, as we fell in love, I remember thinking that the fact that he was white made things easier because I knew he would never tell me I wasn’t black enough. I think of Evelyn the first time she heard her maid speaking Spanish.

I remember thinking that the fact that he wasn’t that well read meant he would never think I was a bad writer. I think of Celia telling Evelyn she wasn’t a good actress.

I remember thinking that the fact that I was clearly the more attractive one made me feel better, because I thought that meant he’d never leave. I think of how Don treated Evelyn despite her being, arguably, the most beautiful woman in the world.

Evelyn rose to those challenges.

But looking at David right now, I can see that I have hidden from them.

Perhaps my entire life.

“Hi,” he says.

I can’t help but vomit the words out of my mouth. I do not have the time or energy or restraint to curate them well or deliver them mildly. “What are you doing here?” I say.

David puts the bowl in his hand into the cupboard and then turns back to me. “I came back to iron out a few things,” he says.

“And I am something to iron out?” I ask.

I put my bag down in the corner. I kick off my shoes.

“You’re something I need to set right,” he says. “I made a mistake. I think we both did.”

Why, until this moment, did I not realize that the issue is my own confidence? That the root of most of my problems is that I need to be secure enough in who I am to tell anyone who doesn’t like it to go fuck themselves? Why have I spent so long settling for less when I know damn well the world expects more?

“I didn’t make a mistake,” I say. And it surprises me just as much as, if not more than, it surprises him.

“Monique, we were both acting rash. I was upset that you wouldn’t move to San Francisco. Because I felt like I had earned the right to ask you to sacrifice for me, for my career.”

I start formulating a response, but David keeps talking.

“And you were upset that I would ask that of you in the first place, because I know how important your life is here. But . . . there are other ways to handle this. We can do long-distance for a little while. And eventually I can move back here, or you can move to San Francisco down the line. We have options. That’s all I’m saying. We don’t have to get a divorce. We don’t have to give up on this.”

I sit down on the couch, fiddling with my hands as I think. Now that he says it, I realize what has made me so sad these past few weeks, what has plagued me and made me feel so terrible about myself.

It isn’t rejection.

And it isn’t heartbreak.

It is defeat.

I wasn’t heartbroken when Don left me. I simply felt like my marriage had failed. And those are very different things.

Evelyn said that just last week.

And now I understand why it got under my skin.

I have been reeling because I failed. Because I picked the wrong guy for me. Because I entered the wrong marriage. Because the truth is that at the age of thirty-five, I have yet to love someone enough to sacrifice for them. I’ve yet to open my heart enough to let someone in that much.

Some marriages aren’t really that great. Some loves aren’t all-encompassing. Sometimes you separate because you weren’t that good together to begin with.

Sometimes divorce isn’t an earth-shattering loss. Sometimes it’s just two people waking up out of a fog.

“I don’t think . . . I think you should go home to San Francisco,” I say to him finally.

David comes and joins me on the couch.

“And I think I should stay here,” I say. “And I don’t think a long-distance marriage is the right play. I think . . . I think divorce is the right play.”

“Monique . . .”

“I’m sorry,” I say as he takes my hand. “I wish I didn’t feel that way. But I suspect, deep down, you think it, too. Because you didn’t come here and tell me how much you miss me. Or how hard it has been to live without me. You said you didn’t want to give up. And look, I don’t want to give up, either. I don’t want to fail at this. But that’s not actually a great reason to stay together. We should have reasons why we don’t want to give up. It shouldn’t just be that we don’t want to give up. And I don’t . . . I don’t have any.” I’m unsure how to say what I want to say gently. So I just say it. “You have never felt like my other half.”

It is only once David gets up off the sofa that I realize I assumed we would be sitting here talking for a long time. And it is only once he puts on his jacket that I realize he probably assumed he would sleep here tonight.

But once he has his hand on the doorknob, I realize that I have put into motion the end of a lackluster life in the interest of eventually finding a great one.

“I hope one day you find someone who feels like the other half of you, I guess,” David says.

Like Celia.

“Thank you,” I say. “I hope you find it, too.”

David smiles in a way that is more of a frown. And then he leaves.

When you end a marriage, you’re supposed to lose sleep over it, aren’t you?

But I don’t. I sleep free.

* * *

I GET A call from Frankie the next morning just as I’m sitting down at Evelyn’s. I consider putting it through to voice mail, but there’s already too much swirling around in my brain. To add Call back Frankie might just put me over the edge. Better to handle it now. Have it behind me.

“Hi, Frankie,” I say.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is light, almost cheerful. “So we need to schedule the photographers. I assume Evelyn will want them to come to her there at the apartment?”

“Oh, that’s a good question,” I say. “One second.” I mute my phone and turn to Evelyn. “They are asking when and where you’ll want to do the photo shoot.”