Chapter 1 - The Door I Chose
“But not your husband?”
Roman’s question hung between us.
Beyond the examination-room window, Chicago traffic moved through the rain. Somewhere down the hall, a printer hummed. Ordinary life continued while mine stood motionless beside a man I still loved.
“I don’t know,” I said.
His jaw tightened.
Roman Dacre could negotiate a shipping contract through a labor strike. He could remember complicated financial projections after hearing them once. Uncertainty had never frightened him in business.
In our marriage, he had tried to eliminate it.
“You don’t know,” he repeated.
“That isn’t an invitation to convince me.”
He lowered his head.
Dr. Lane closed my chart.
“Nora, would you like the room cleared?”
I looked at her gratefully.
“Yes. But first, I need to understand why he’s here.”
Elias answered from the doorway.
“His rehabilitation specialist moved to the fourth floor. We were heading to the elevator. You laughed, and he recognized your voice.”
Roman’s fingers shifted on his cane.
“The door was open when the nurse came through,” he said. “I heard you ask about both of them.”
“So you weren’t following me?”
“No.”
I wanted to believe him.
Wanting had once been enough.
“Elias?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“No one followed you today.”
Today.
The word settled unpleasantly.
Roman turned slightly toward him.
“What does that mean?”
Elias went still.
Dr. Lane stepped between the conversation and my examination table.
“This is a medical office. Whatever else needs discussing can happen somewhere Nora chooses, at a time she chooses.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Roman said, “Of course.”
It was such a simple response that I nearly cried.
He took a business card from his coat and held it toward Dr. Lane rather than reaching blindly for a surface.
“My direct number. If Nora wants you to have it.”
Dr. Lane looked at me.
I nodded.
Then Roman faced my voice.
“May I call you?”
“One message,” I said. “Tonight. I’ll answer when I’m ready.”
“All right.”
“And Roman?”
“Yes?”
“If I see someone outside my building, this conversation ends.”
His lips parted.
The old response was there. I could almost hear it.
You don’t understand the risks.
Instead, he said, “Understood.”
Elias guided him toward the hallway only after Roman asked where the doorframe was. His cane tapped against the tile, a familiar rhythm receding instead of approaching.
When he was gone, my knees weakened.
Dr. Lane helped me sit.
“Would you like someone called?”
“My friend June.”
“Does she know about the pregnancy?”
“She knows everything.”
Except that I still kept my wedding ring in the pocket of every coat I wore.
June arrived twenty minutes later with wet hair, two bagels, and the expression of a woman prepared to argue with an entire hospital.
She owned the used bookstore where I worked, a narrow place in Ravenswood called Second Chapter.
When I left Roman, she had offered me a job and a couch.
I accepted the job.
Accepting shelter had felt too much like entering another person’s debt.
On the ride home, she listened without interrupting.
“He asked what I wanted,” I said finally.
“That’s a beginning.”
“It sounded like him.”
“It was him.”
“No. The man before everything.”
June stopped at a red light.
“The man before everything still has to answer for the man afterward.”
At my apartment, she carried the bagels upstairs and checked the hallway before letting me in. I almost laughed at the irony.
She noticed.
“I asked,” she said. “You said yes.”
That difference had become the hinge of my whole life.
At eight seventeen, Roman’s message arrived.
I heard you today. I’m sorry that took so long. There are things I need to clarify about the security arrangements after you left. I will not approach you without your agreement. Please tell me when you are willing to talk.
Below it came a second notification.
A photograph from an unfamiliar number.
My apartment entrance.
Taken from across the street.
The message underneath read:
You have made your point. Come home before someone gets hurt.
I stopped breathing.
June took one look at my face and held out her hand.
This time, when I called Roman, I didn’t ask whether he had sent it.
May you like
I asked a harder question.
“If this wasn’t you,” I said, “who still thinks they have permission to speak for you?”
