Chapter 20
“That sounds healthy.”
I laughed.
“I didn’t say they were good parts.”
Her smile disappeared slowly.
“What else?”
“Building something.”
“That part I understand.”
“I miss seeing a piece of land and knowing what it could become.”
I looked at Noah sleeping nearby.
“I don’t miss believing I had to own everything I built.”
Clara studied me.
“That sounds rehearsed.”
“It probably is.”
She laughed.
The sound stopped my breathing.
Not because it meant she had forgiven me.
Not because it meant she was coming home.
Because once, long before the Ritz, long before Noah, long before the penthouse and the headlines and the affair, Clara used to laugh at me every day.
I had forgotten how much I missed that sound.
I looked away before I made the moment heavier than it deserved to be.
That was another thing I was learning.
Not every good moment was an invitation to demand more.
Nearly a year after the night I stayed at the Ritz, I walked through Mayfair carrying Noah against my chest.
The sky was threatening rain.
He was bigger now.
Heavy enough that my shoulder began aching after several blocks.
I did not mind.
I passed the hotel.
For several seconds, I considered crossing the street.
Then I kept walking.
Noah was fascinated by buses.
Every red double-decker made him twist in my arms.
“Yes,” I told him. “Another bus.”
He made an excited noise.
“Apparently London has several.”
People passed us without looking.
Nobody recognized me.
Or if they did, they did not care.
Once, that would have terrified me.
I had built my identity around being noticed.
Now I stood on a pavement with a baby chewing the edge of his sleeve and realized anonymity could feel like mercy.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Clara.
How’s he doing?
I took a picture of Noah pointing at a bus.
Thrilled by public transport. Standards remain low.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
He gets that from you.
I smiled.
A year earlier, I would have searched that message for meaning.
Was she flirting?
Was she softening?
Was this a sign?
Now I put the phone away.
Noah needed lunch.
That was enough.
Clara and I did not remarry.
Not then.
Perhaps we never would.
For a long time, that truth was harder to accept than losing the company.
Business failure could be reframed.
A comeback could be announced.