Dinner was seven courses. I tasted none of them. I watched Vivian laugh at Marcus’s stories—stories I had heard a thousand times. I watched his hand brush her arm. I watched my mother’s sapphires sparkle on the wrist of the woman who was stealing my life.
At 11:50 PM, the house lights dimmed. The screens above the bar switched to the Times Square broadcast. Waiters circulated with fresh bottles of Dom Pérignon.
Marcus stood up. He tapped his spoon against his glass. The sharp ding-ding-ding cut through the chatter.
“I want to say something,” he announced. His voice was rich, projecting easily to the surrounding tables. The restaurant quieted.
“This year has been transformative for me,” he began. “I’ve learned a lot about myself. About what I really want. About the importance of being honest, instead of hiding behind comfort and routine.”
My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird. I pulled my phone from my clutch, pretending to check the time, and propped it against the centerpiece. The camera lens was trained directly on him.
“So,” Marcus continued, “as we go into this new year, I am making a change. I am starting fresh.”
He reached down and took Vivian’s hand. He pulled her to her feet.
“Vivian and I are engaged.”
The gasps were audible. A fork clattered onto a plate. Everyone looked at Vivian, who was beaming, holding up her left hand to display a diamond the size of a skating rink.
Then, everyone looked at me.
Marcus turned to me then. His expression was a masterpiece of pity and condescension.
“Elena,” he said, his voice dropping to a theatrical hush. “I know this is awkward. But you knew this was coming. You signed the papers back in November. Remember? We’ve been divorced for six weeks. It’s time to move on. Let’s all be adults about this.”
