Chapter 15: After the Gala

Holden called over and over between Fifth Avenue and the shop.

Otis drove with both hands on the wheel.

My phone lit up on my knee, and neither of us said a word about it.

On the twelfth call I turned the screen toward him.

It was a voicemail icon, and I put it on speaker.

"Greta." Holden's voice was rough. "Please. I was wrong about the doctor, about all of it."

"Come home. I'll end the petition tonight and I'll do whatever you want."

"Just come home."

Otis's jaw moved.

He kept his eyes on the road.

"He's begging," he said.

"Yes."

"You stayed six years."

"I stayed six years because I didn't know what I was holding." I looked at him. "You think I'll go back."

"I think it's what people do."

"Pull over."

He pulled over at the curb in front of the shop, with the engine running.

I dialed Holden's number and put the phone to my ear, and Otis watched me do it.

It went to voicemail.

"Holden," I said. "Don't call again. The next time I speak to you, it'll be in a boardroom."

I hung up, and I put the phone in the cup holder, face down.

"There," I said. "Now you've heard it."

Otis put his forehead against the steering wheel.

"I'm an idiot," he said.

"You're a little bit of an idiot."

"A medium."

"Come upstairs."

He lifted his head.

The radiator in my flat was banging when I opened the door, as it did every night at ten.

The bay window was white with frost.

I turned the lamp on, and I turned around.

He stood in the doorway with his tie loose.

"Greta, you're thirty-three weeks."

"I'm aware. My doctor says I can do anything that doesn't hurt."

I took his tie in my hand and pulled him one step in.

"Does this hurt?"

"No."

"Good. Close the door."

He closed it.

I kissed him, and it wasn't the kitchen kiss, hurried and floury.

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