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The toilet was clogged again.

Paul arrived home, kissed Tatyana, and grabbed the plunger.

She was at the kitchen table working on her laptop, editing photos, and vaping. “Thank you,” she said. She closed her laptop. Took a puff off her vape pen.

“What’s wrong? You’re vaping.”

“Papa told me his lawyer gave you a prenup to sign today.”

“He did.”

“And he said you gave it to your lawyer.”

“Right, but . . .”

“Oh, Pasha, I hate this so much. A prenup is like—”

“Tatyana—”

“It’s like planning for a divorce before you’re even married!”

“I made a few minor changes, but I’m going to sign it, dushen’kaya .” He’d begun to use the occasional Russian term of endearment.

“You are? But what about your lawyer?”

He had called Brad Sarkisian back and told him what he was going to do, and Brad had let him know in no uncertain terms that he was out of his mind. “Do you realize how much you could get out of this deal?” he’d said.

“I know,” Paul had said. “But I’m not planning to divorce her.”

“That’s what everyone says, Paul. Until they do, and they always live to regret it.” Brad had about a hundred changes—redlines, he called them—he wanted to make.

Now Paul said to Tatyana, “My lawyer thinks I’m crazy. But I’m going to sign it pretty much as is.”

“You are ?”

“I want you to know I’m not interested in your money, okay? I want you to know that.”

She threw her arms around him and hugged him for a long time. He could feel her tears on his neck. “I was dreading your reaction!” she said. “I was so depressed—I thought this would break us apart.”

While they embraced, he said, “No, of course not. But I think it’s time to look for another apartment. With room for both of us. Deal?”