Chapter 2 — You Don’t Get to Call Me Home

I checked the invitation on my phone.

October 24. Noon. The Glasshouse at Wren House.

The words on the page did not change when I closed the email. I pressed my palm over them until the paper warmed, then took it away.

Still there.

I found Vivian's abandoned pen and wrote beneath the sentence.

Julian recovered.

The ink sat wet and black for a moment. Then it drew itself backward along the strokes, leaving nothing.

I tried another sentence.

Vivian called off the wedding.

That vanished too.

So wanting something was not enough. Writing it was not enough.

The paragraph about the papers remained blank.

I slept with the book under my hand.

The next morning was October 12. A doctor reviewed the latest results with me, explained what should bring me back, and arranged follow-up appointments. By eleven, I was dressed and waiting for my discharge papers.

Vivian arrived carrying coffee I hadn't requested.

"I'll take you home."

"I've ordered a car."

"Cancel it. I'm already here."

I could stand in the lobby arguing or save my energy for something useful. I canceled the ride, picked up my own bag, and followed her outside.

Halfway across the bridge, her phone lit up in the console.

Theo. A photograph beneath his name showed him holding Maisie on his shoulders.

Vivian declined the call.

I watched a fishing boat move beneath us.

"You don't have to do that," I said.

"Do what?"

"Manage what I see."

She adjusted the heat instead of answering.

My apartment occupied the second floor of a converted brick warehouse. I had kept it in the divorce. At some point, Vivian had started referring to this as something she'd allowed.

She came upstairs and unlocked the door before I reached for my keys.

"The cleaner was here yesterday," she said. "There are groceries."

On the counter stood a vase of white flowers, the kind she sent clients after a difficult meeting.

"Thank you. I'll handle it from here."

She set the coffee down.

"I don't want people coming through while you're in this state."

"What people?"

"Whoever you might decide to invite over to make a point."

I put my bag on a chair and held out my hand.

"My key, please."

Her expression changed before her voice did.

"Don't be childish. What if you need help?"

"Then I'll ask for it."

She looked down at the key between her fingers.

I waited.

Finally, she separated it from her ring. It landed in my palm with a small, ordinary weight.

"There. Happy?"

I opened the door for her.

That afternoon, I called the cleaner to arrange future visits directly. Then I took down the photograph above the desk.

It was from our honeymoon. Vivian had been laughing at the camera, one hand around my wrist. I remembered the joke. I remembered the woman taking the picture telling us to stand closer, and Vivian saying we couldn't.

I wrapped the frame in a towel.

There were still things I wanted to keep. I didn't need them watching me work.

I spent the evening sorting Maisie's school messages and updating the care notes I'd started in the hospital.

At 1:17 a.m., my phone rang.

"It's Maisie," Vivian said. "She's burning up. Nora's gone home. Come over."

I was on my feet before she finished.

"Where is she?"

"With me. At the townhouse."

"Put her on."

"Julian, just come."

She hung up.

My shoes were by the door. I had one on when I remembered Nora's text from dinner: staying overnight at the main house, Maisie asleep early.

I called her.

She answered on the fourth ring, groggy.

"Can you check Maisie? Right now."

Sheets rustled. A door opened.

"She's asleep. What's happened?"

"Vivian said she's ill. At the townhouse."

"No. She's here."

Nora switched to video. My daughter lay sprawled across her pillow, rabbit tucked under her chin. She stirred when Nora adjusted the blanket, complained about the light, and went back to sleep.

I sat down on the floor.

"Thank you," I said. "I'm sorry I woke you."

I called Vivian back. No answer.

Then a text arrived.

Are you coming or not?

I saved it, along with the call times, and wrote down exactly what she'd told me while I could still hear it.

There was an envelope in my desk containing her remaining mail and a spare access card for Wren House. I took it with me.

The townhouse was a short cab ride away. I asked the driver to wait.

Vivian opened the door barefoot, a glass in her hand.

She looked past me at the idling car.

"You came."

"Maisie's with Nora."

For an instant, she seemed irritated with Nora.

Then she smiled, tired and crooked.

"I knew you wouldn't ignore me if it mattered."

I gave her the envelope.

"Don't use our daughter to get me to your door again."

"I needed to know whether you still—"

"You could have asked."

Her smile disappeared.

"Would you have answered?"

"You don't get to frighten me because you dislike the answer."

She set down the glass and reached for my sleeve.

I stepped back.

Inside, her phone began to ring. She glanced toward it, then at me, caught between two people expecting her to choose.

For years, I would have stayed to find out which one she picked.

I walked down the steps.

"You're really leaving?"

The cabdriver reached across to open the door for me.

I got in.

At home, I sent one final message: emergencies about Maisie required accurate details. Routine arrangements belonged in email. Nora could always call me.

Then I silenced Vivian's notifications for the night.

My hands were shaking so badly I had to set the phone down with both palms.

The book lay open where I'd left it.

On the page, a man knelt beside a woman's sofa, asking her why she kept hurting him if she didn't want him anymore.

As I watched, the kneeling man disappeared.

The dialogue followed.

I pulled a chair closer and turned the page.

October 14. Seven o'clock. The Lantern Room, Wren House.

Julian raised his glass to the bride and groom. Everyone admired how gracefully he had accepted his place.

My inbox chimed.

An invitation from Wren House's events team.

Same date. Same time. Same room.

Across the bottom, in Vivian's handwriting, were four words.

I need you there.