Page 1 of Never Quite Gone

Prologue

There was a moment, right before everything changed, when life felt almost offensively perfect. Like the universe was setting me up for some cosmic punchline.

The candlelight at Le Bernardin did something unfair to Michael's face, softening the laugh lines around his eyes in a way that made my chest ache. He was wielding his dessert spoon like a conductor's baton, punctuating each word with a little flourish that threatened to send chocolate soufflé flying across our corner table.

“Admit it,” he said, leaning forward with that conspiratorial grin that had made me forget how to speak during our first date. “This beats your usual 'I'll just have an espresso' routine by approximately one million percent.”

“I maintain a dignified relationship with dessert,” I countered, but I was already reaching across the table with my own spoon. He gasped, clutching his chest like I'd committed high treason.

“Doctor Monroe, you wound me. After eight years of marriage, the betrayal still stings.”

Around us, Le Bernardin hummed with the white noise of New York's finest – muted conversations about hedge funds and Hampton houses, the gentle percussion of expensive silverwareagainst French porcelain. Michael's wedding ring caught the light as he artfully defended his soufflé from my advance. The familiar gleam sent me tumbling back eight years to our first date, when he had ordered tiramisu AND crème brûlée because, as he had put it, “life's too short to pick just one dessert.”

I had already been half in love with him by the time he finished the tiramisu.

“You're doing that thing again,” Michael said, pulling me back to the present. His voice had that soft edge it got when he was reading my mind.

“What thing?”

“That thing where you get all misty-eyed and nostalgic while I'm trying to enjoy my chocolate sacrifice to the French gods.” He reached across the table, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “You had a little...” His touch lingered longer than necessary, and something warm unfurled in my chest. “Though I suppose eight years of marriage earns you some nostalgic privileges.”

“How generous of you.”

The waiter materialized with our coffee – an art form they'd perfected here, appearing exactly when you wanted them and vanishing when you didn't. Michael wrapped his hands around his cup and launched into a story about his latest architectural project. I'd heard bits and pieces over the past few weeks, but watching him tell it then, hands painting pictures in the air as he described the restoration of some historic brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, I was struck by how alive he became when he talked about bringing old things back to life.

“The original moldings were hidden under seventy years of really questionable paint choices,” he said, eyes bright with architectural indignation. “We're talking neon green in a Victorian parlor, Eli. It should be a criminal offense.”

“I'll alert the architecture police immediately.”

“This is why I married you. Your unwavering support in times of historical preservation crisis.”

I stole another bite of his soufflé while he was distracted by aesthetic trauma. “I thought you married me for my steady hands and hospital benefits.”

“That too. The ability to suture my DIY renovation injuries was definitely a selling point.”

When the bill arrived, we fell into the comfortable choreography of a long-married couple planning their future. Michael absently played with my wedding ring as he reminded me about the nursery we'd promised to help Rachel paint next weekend. Eight years in, and he still had this habit of touching my ring when we talked about future plans, like he was checking to make sure this was all still real.

“I'm thinking we go with the space theme,” he said, already sketching nebulae and rocket ships on the back of our receipt. “Gender-neutral, educational, lots of glow-in-the-dark potential.”

“Rachel specifically said no glow-in-the-dark anything after the Christmas incident.”

“That was one time, and how was I supposed to know the paint would be that bright?”

“The box said 'nuclear grade.'”

“Details.” He tucked the receipt-turned-sketch into his wallet, right next to the villa brochures he'd been collecting. “Speaking of future plans, I've been doing some research for our tenth anniversary.”

“Two years away and you're already planning? Who are you and what have you done with my professionally procrastinating husband?”

“Hey, I'll have you know I'm very prompt about important things.” He pulled out his phone, scrolling to a saved photo of a sun-drenched villa. “I'm thinking Italy. There's this place in Tuscany...”

Something flickered in the back of my mind – a half-remembered dream of ancient stones warm under my hands, the sharp smell of oil paint and turpentine, summer light filtering through a studio window. I blinked and it was gone, replaced by Michael'senthusiasm as he swiped through photos of terracotta roofs and cypress trees.

“Look at this view,” he said, turning the phone toward me. “Picture it – two weeks of nothing but wine, pasta, and absolutely zero emergency room drama.”

“You say that like I'm not going to spend the whole time worrying about my department burning down without me.”

“Sofia will keep everything running smoothly, and if not, at least it'll burn down efficiently under her watch.”

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