The drive back to the city Sunday evening is quiet in the best way.
Not the careful, performative quiet of two people maintaining professional distance. The easy, comfortable quiet of two people who have run out of things to hide and haven’t yet figured out what to do about it.
Adrian drives. I watch the Hudson Valley fade into highway and highway fade into skyline, and I think about Eleanor’s words at the reception.
*A couple who has simply stopped pretending.*
I think about the pocket square. The Hartwell recommendation he never mentioned. The way he looked at me across the room like I was the only fixed point in a spinning space.
I think about separate rooms — how I lay awake in the east wing staring at the ceiling, aware of exactly how many walls stood between us, which was three
