Chapter 4: The Second Row

I walked onto the stage and found him in under a second.

Second row, aisle seat, in a charcoal suit.

Quentin had lost weight in the face, and the cleft in his chin looked deeper than I remembered.

His left hand lay flat on his knee.

His eyes were on me and they did not move.

I had imagined this for three years, in the shower, on trains, and at two in the morning with a teething baby.

In every version I was cold and sharp and had the perfect sentence.

In the real one, my knees were water, and the director was handing me a glass trophy shaped like a folded ribbon.

"Say something short," she muttered. "Before you fall over."

I stepped up to the microphone.

"Thank you," I said. "To my lab, who stayed when I didn't have a salary."

Somebody clapped in the back row.

"To the director, who gave me bench fourteen and told me to eat."

A few people laughed.

I looked at the second row again.

"And to my son," I said. "Who is downstairs right now, building a tower out of silverware."

The room laughed warmly.

Quentin did not laugh.

His hand slid off his knee, and then I saw him grip the armrest with it.

I had not planned to say the word. It had come out because it was true.

The applause went on.

I held the trophy against my chest and walked down the steps into the side corridor.

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