Camden brought me coffee every morning for a week.
Not just any coffee. My exact order from the place six blocks away that I mentioned once, months ago. He'd set it on the nightstand before I woke, still hot, the cup turned so the logo faced me. Like he'd staged it.
I'd open my eyes and there it would be. Evidence of his attention. Proof he was trying.
He texted throughout the day. Small things. *Thinking of you.* A photo of a dog he passed on the street because he knew I'd smile. *Home by seven. Want to cook together?*
At night he pulled me close, his chest against my back, his arm heavy across my waist. I'd lie there in the dark, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing, and think: *This is what I wanted. This is what I've always wanted.*
So why did it feel like I couldn't breathe?
I started keeping my journal in my purse instead of the nightstand. I'd write in coffee shop bathrooms, in the back of cabs, anywhere Camden wasn't. The entries got shorter. Sharper.
*He is being so kind. Why does his kindness feel like a hand over my mouth?*
On Thursday, Camden told me Malia was back in New York.
I was chopping vegetables for dinner. The knife went still in my hand.
"She flew in this morning," he said. His tone was casual. He was opening a bottle of wine like this was any other conversation. "She's ready to sign the paperwork. My lawyer has everything prepared."
I set the knife down carefully. "That's good."
"I thought the three of us could have dinner." He poured two glasses, slid one across the counter toward me. "Tomorrow night. Clear the air. Show there's no weirdness."
I stared at the wine. Watched the light catch the surface. "You want me to have dinner with your wife."
"Ex-wife." His voice sharpened. Just slightly. "Paperwork's a formality at this point. But yes. I think it would help. For all of us."
I picked up the glass. Took a sip. It tasted like nothing. "Okay."
Relief smoothed his expression. He came around the counter and kissed the top of my head. "Thank you. I know this isn't easy."
I nodded against his chest and thought: *He's managing me. He's always been managing me.*
The restaurant Camden chose was the kind of place we used to go for celebrations. Exposed brick. Edison bulbs. A menu that changed weekly. I'd always loved it here.
Now it felt like a stage.
Malia was already seated when we arrived. She stood and pulled me into a hug before I could decide whether to allow it. She smelled the same—that expensive perfume she'd worn for years. My stomach turned.
"Tess," she said into my hair. "God, I'm so sorry."
I pulled back. Looked at her face. She looked tired. Thinner than I remembered. Her makeup was perfect but her eyes were slightly red, like she'd been crying recently.
Or like she wanted me to think she had.
Camden pulled out my chair. I sat. Malia sat across from me. Camden took the seat between us, equidistant, like a moderator.
The waiter came. We ordered. I watched Camden and Malia interact and felt like I was watching a play I hadn't been given the script for.
They barely looked at each other. When Camden asked Malia to pass the bread, his tone was flat. Bored. She handed it over without a word, her gaze already back on her phone.
It was the indifference that sold it. If they'd been awkward, if there'd been tension, I might have questioned it. But this—this cold, practiced disinterest—looked exactly like two people who'd made a drunken mistake years ago and had nothing left to say about it.
"The lawyer said we can finalize everything by next week," Camden said. He was cutting his steak with surgical precision. "Then we can move forward. Set a new date."
Malia nodded. Took a sip of wine. "Whatever you need."
I pushed food around my plate. My throat felt tight.
Malia reached across the table suddenly. Her hand covered mine. Her fingers were warm. Familiar.
"Tess," she said quietly. "I am so sorry. You deserve so much better than this mess."
Her eyes were bright. Sincere. The same eyes that had looked at me across a thousand dinners, a thousand secrets, a thousand moments I thought were real.
I looked down at her hand on mine.
"It's okay," I heard myself say. "We'll get through it."
She squeezed my hand. Smiled. "We always do."
Camden's expression softened. He looked relieved. Grateful. Like I'd just given him something he desperately needed.
I pulled my hand back slowly. Picked up my fork.
And I thought: *They're lying. Both of them. I just don't know how yet.*
But I smiled. I nodded. I played my part.
Because I was good at that.
I'd been doing it for ten years.
