Chapter 22: Paper That Didn't Matter

"I told your lawyer no," I said.

"He told me," Gavin said. "I'm not here to ask for anything."

He stood on the brick walk outside the iron gate, without the black car and without a coat.

The evening light made him look older than thirty-three.

"Then why are you here?"

"Because it's my last chance to say it to your face.

"In the morning I go in front of a judge."

I thought about walking past him.

Instead I opened my bag and took out the plastic sleeve I had carried from New York.

The marriage certificate was folded in it, soft at the creases, with the digit that was one too short.

I held it out.

"This is yours," I said.

He did not take it at first.

"I kept it because I thought it was the only proof I had," I said. "Of seven years, and of me."

"Callie"

"You asked me once whether the paperwork mattered so much. You said I had everything a wife has."

"I remember."

"You were right," I said. "It didn't matter."

His face moved, and for one second he looked hopeful.

"The paper never mattered," I went on.

"What mattered was whether you would stand in a lobby full of people and say my name."

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