Page 33 of The New Couple in 5B

“It is,” I say with more passion than I intended. “I believe that.”

He kisses me and then gets up to leave, clearing our plates, draining the last of his coffee.

I walk him to the door and wait with him at the elevator until Abi comes.

Abi is crisp and upright as ever in his impeccably pressed uniform. When did he go home? He must sleep here. I’m going to find out more about Abi’s schedule, though why it bothers me so much I don’t know. I remember our late-night conversation, how he answered when I practically whispered his name in my apartment.

“Big audition today, Mr. Lowan?” he says brightly.

Seriously? Either there’s a major gossip mill in this building, or Abi really is listening in on our conversations.

“That’s right, Abi,” says Chad, the extrovert who relishes in all attention. “Wish me luck.”

“You won’t need it, sir. I have a good feeling.”

Chad takes his time kissing me goodbye, not worried apparently about our audience who, to his credit, averts his eyes.“I love you,”I whisper.

“Love you.”

He blows me a kiss as the elevator door closes.

“Happy writing, Ms. Lowan,” says Abi before it shuts completely.

I hear a shuffle behind Ella and Charles’s door and wonder if they’re watching through the peephole. We’ve been here less than a full day, and already I’m missing the seedy anonymity of our East Village walk-up.

How am I going to get out of game night?I wonder as I enter the apartment and shut the door behind me. It takes me a second to register that my phone is ringing. Maybe it’s Max. We’re supposed to have lunch today to go over the outline I submitted. Things have been oddly strained since Chad’s opening night, and our conversations have been strictly professional and mostly over email. Though he did send me a funny video of a kitten getting his belly rubbed with a spoon, which I took as a bit of an olive branch. I sent him a heart emoji. I’m hoping lunch will be a reset of our normal, easy friendship.

It’s not Max, but I answer anyway because the number looks vaguely familiar.

“Hi, this is Rosie.”

“Hey—it’s Dana.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. “How are you?”

“I’msorry,” she says. “About the last time we met. Well, actually—it was the first time, wasn’t it? Anyway. I wanted to apologize.”

Her voice is raspy and small, like she’s been crying or has a cold.

“No need,” I say. “This kind of thing—it’s hard. There’s no roadmap for dealing with grief.” Or for being robbed of your inheritance.

A crackling on the line makes me think I lost the connection. The cell service in the building has proved unreliable and we’ve often resorted to using Ivan’s old landline for making calls.

“Dana?”

“Do you have time to get together maybe?”

“Oh.” Is that a good idea? She could still be planning to sue us for the apartment. Should I call Olivia? See what she thinks?

“There are some things I think you need to know.” She takes a shuddering breath. “About your husband.”

My husband? It’s a bit of a gut punch, but I try to steady myself. She’s unstable, clearly.

“About Chad? Can you tell me now?” I venture. “I have some time to talk.”

Honestly, I don’t have time to talk. I know it always seems like writers have time to do whatever. But we don’t. A small delay—a dentist appointment, an unscheduled call—turns into a wasted morning or afternoon, which can turn into a wasted day where no writing or research gets accomplished. Then you’re behind schedule and time compresses, that deadline coming like a freight train.

And what could she possibly know about Chad? They haven’t seen each other in years. I’m quite sure I know everything there is to know about him, even his difficult past. We’ve laid ourselves bare for each other, in every way.