Page 38 of The New Couple in 5B

I force myself to drink some water, to take a long, slow breath. I know he’s trying to help, but he isn’t.

“That night,” he says again. “I wish...”

“What? You wish what?” I say too sharply. My shoulders are hiked, breath shallow.

He pauses a second, takes a sip from his glass. “I wish I had been more honest about my feelings. The very next week you met Chad.”

Okay, wow. I did not expect to go there. As if I needthison top of everything else.

“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. What if hehadbeen more honest about his feelings? The truth is that I don’t feel that way about Max. I love him. But I’m not in love with him, never have been. Our connection is powerful but it’s not romantic. Not for me.

“Well,” he says, taking off his glasses and rubbing them with the napkin. “What’s done is done, right?”

I reach for his hand, and he laces his fingers through mine. “You’re mybest friend,” I say.

He pushes out a little laugh. “Ouch.”

“That means something, right?”

For a moment it seems like he can’t meet my eyes. Then,

“Rosie,” he says, with the smile I know so well. “It means everything.”

“Look,” I say after a moment. “Let’s just forget all of this. I don’t know what happened to the box and until I confront Abi, I’m not going to know. The train that night. Who knows what happened? I was in a weird place, working through all the lies and instability from my childhood. Can we just focus on the work today?”

“Of course, yes,” he says with a nod. “Let’s focus on the haunted building where there have been multiple violent deaths and suicides and where you’ve just moved in. At least that’s easier to manage.”

It is. The past is always easier to manage than the present. It’s gone. Now all we can do is narrate what we think happened, write the stories. Those stories become the truth.

We go through the outline, gorge ourselves on carbs, and by the end of the lunch it’s clear that story of the Windermere is the story of the people who died there. An intriguing cast of creatives—an actor, a dancer, a writer, a self-proclaimed psychic, a young boy, a prodigy pianist. A chapter for each, featuring bits about the church fire, the famous architect who designed the building—and who also threw himself from its roof—interviews with historians, psychologists, experts on the supernatural.

But ultimately, the story will end with the idea that of course the Windermere is not haunted. There will be some reason, some explanation, or possible explanations for why so many people have died there. I don’t know what the ultimate ending will be—only that it’s through the lives and deaths of the residents that I’ll find a way to understand the history of our new home and say something larger about life and death itself.

“Ambitious,” says Max.

“That’s a dirty word,” I say with mock indignation. “Like a cliff I’m about to jump off, hoping there are no jagged rocks in the water below.”

“It’s going to be fantastic,” he says. “I’m excited. And your writing, just the early pages. It’s magnificent. You’ve really grown.”

I’m childishly pleased to hear it.

“But, you know.” He frowns, seems to choose his words. “Just stay on solid ground? Don’t follow them down the rabbit hole. I know it’s hard when you’re digging up graves. But try to stay in the light.”

Max is referring to the deep depression I suffered during the writing of the last book. He and my agent Amy both had to hold my hand, a lot. But I’m past that. I’ve had therapy, lots of it. I’ve been off my medication for over a year—in preparation for trying to have a baby. I’m happy. I’m solid, not at all in the same place I was last time. I realize that I’m gripping the fork in my hand so hard that it hurts, then relax my stiff fingers.

“I’m good.”

He seems about to say more but the waiter brings dessert, a tiramisu that we’re supposed to share but which I will hog.

“Oh, before I forget.” He reaches into his satchel and takes out an old clothbound book.

It as thick as a doorstop.

“You might like this,” he says. “I’ve had it on my shelf forever.”

The Secret History of New York Cityby Arthur Alpern.

“We’ve published a number of Art’s books,” says Max, motioning to the waiter for the check. “He’s kind of a treasure, knows everything there is to know about this city, the buildings. I can put together a meeting.”

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