Page 116 of The New Couple in 5B

After our argument, I can’t take Sarah up on her offer and I don’t want to anyway, have no way to reach her now. I twist at my wedding ring, as the police continue to rummage through my things.

Do I have to stay here? Should I? Where is Olivia?

Sometimes when your world falls apart, you just have to take action. Sitting helpless is not a good option. So finally, I grab my bag and leave out the back door before anyone can stop me.

thirty-seven

I hail a cab and head uptown, the city foreign and strange, a blurry photo. This feeling of floating, of being alone, it’s familiar. I felt it as a child in the world my father created, one I always sensed on some level was not quite true. Then, when I left it all behind to pursue an education, the truth about the world and myself, I remember wondering ifanythingwas real, anything was true. Or if every place, every reality, was just another story that you choose to believe.

For the first few months in school, I felt like a ghost in this city, invisible. Until my life started to take root. I made friends, earned good grades, started learning and living—going to clubs and movies, picnics in Central Park. The city became my universe—worldly, as Sarah would say—solid and undeniably real.

When the cab comes to a stop, I swipe my card. The driver doesn’t say a word as I exit and as he pulls swiftly away. I never see his face except on the ID tag posted on the thick plastic divider between us. How strange this city must seem to Sarah who’s never been out of our town. There’s a twinge of sadness, of sorrow, about the way we parted. Maybe I’ll never see her again. Another loss, another person drifting further and further away. How will she get home? I suppose the same way she arrived. She’s a grown woman, not the child I left behind.

I have no place else to go, so I’ve come to see if I can find Olivia. It’s after five, so she’s not in court. Her towering, gleaming apartment building looms above me—all metal and glass and amenities. I’m going to wait for her at her apartment until she comes home. I approach her building.

The truth is I’ve always been a little jealous of Olivia. She seems so much more adult, more together, than I could ever hope to be. But Chad always described their relationship as difficult. An early spark of passion, but then in the end they were too different—she too regimented for him, he too laid back for her. She wanted more—to move in, to get engaged. He wasn’t ready for any of that, still reeling from his losses and trauma—not with her, not with anyone. In the end, their friendship worked better than their love affair. That’s what he always told me.

And it’s true that Olivia and I are opposites. She’s tough and hard-bodied, spending much of her free time in physical activity—running marathons or taking climbing trips to this mountain or that. I’m bookish and small, more at home at the library than the gym.We’re so different, I thought when I first met her. How could he be attracted to her once, and now to me? Don’t most people have a type? Floppy-haired creatives, that’s my thing.

Olivia’s doorman is readingThe Postas I approach, but he puts it down as soon as he sees me.

“Hey, Rosie,” he says. We’ve been here a million times. And her muscle-bound, bald-headed doorman, Brando, knows us well. “I’m not sure she’s home. Have a pile of packages here for her.”

“Hey, Brando. She’s not,” I say. “She asked me to stop by and feed the cat.”

He frowns, looking at the computer screen in front of him. “Oh...she didn’t leave word.”

I match his frown. “Oh, really. I’ll call her.”

I make a show of calling her and getting her voice mail, hanging up.

“Poor Truman,” I say.

Truman is Olivia’s ancient cat who only likes Chad and me. So we’re her go-to cat sitters when she’s away, often dropping by to take care of him when she’s working late, or tied up with a big trial.

He waves me off. “Nah, it’s okay. Don’t bother her. Just go on up. You have the key?”

“I do.”

He frowns at me before going back to his paper. “Tell her next time she needs to let me know, though?”

I toss him a smile. Some of Chad’s acting skills must be rubbing off on me. I drop the happy, carefree act as soon as the elevator doors close and see my frazzled reflection in the mirrored doors. I’m a wreck in jeans and Converse, Chad’s old leather jacket and a gray T-shirt.

People have died. There’s a warrant out for my husband’s arrest. He’s missing. Olivia, my lawyer, is not returning my calls, or the call from Detective Crowe. I know that’s not right—shewouldhave called. Should have.

Something’s very wrong.

I knock on the door in case she’s in there, but there’s no answer. So I use my key to press inside. The apartment is dark, blinds pulled.

“Olivia.”

Nothing. I pause, breathing deep. What am I doing exactly? I guess I’m just going to sit on her couch until she comes home. I have no place else to go.

I wander from her minimalist living room with its low sectional and hanging orb lights, large-screen television mounted on the wall. Huge windows provide stunning views of downtown. In her white bedroom, there’s a platform bed and simple dresser, touch lamps on each side table. Everything simple, elegant. Curated.

The apartment smells like her, the Armani cologne she favors. Her bathroom is pristine, surfaces clean, electric toothbrush stowed in a cabinet. Expensive makeup neatly organized in a drawer.

Her closet is a showroom of gorgeous suits and silk blouses, a collection of shoes that probably cost more over time than a used car, built-in drawers lined with designer workout clothes, jewelry displayed in lit glass cases, rows of stunning lingerie.

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