Chapter 1
The bus sighed against the curb and didn't move. Its doors hung open on yellow hinges and the air coming out was cooler than the sidewalk, smelling of diesel and floor cleaner. I had my hand locked around the telescoping handle of my suitcase. The hard shell was hot from the sun. Behind me the glass shelter threw a sharp rectangle of shadow across the bench where I'd been sitting, and somewhere above the traffic a speaker crackled.
That was the contradiction that kept tripping me. Everything was ordinary and brutal at once. Midday sun hammered the pavement outside the shelter and made every color too bright, the orange stripe on the black city bus, the white of my top under my blazer, the scuff on my black heels. People moved past with their own luggage like it was any Monday. Julian stood at the peak of it, breath coming short, sweat darkening the collar of his white shirt under his charcoal suit, staring at my hand on that handle like he could will it open.
My name is Elise Hart. I was thirty minutes past the time I told myself I would be gone. That morning I'd folded my gray pencil skirt and blazer into dry-cleaning plastic I didn't need, because I wanted to look like a woman who had a plan.
The announcement came flat and automated over the platform speaker. "Now arriving at Gate 6, New York." The words echoed off the glass. I felt them in my teeth. The bus in front of me said NEW YORK across its display and for a second I watched the driver check his mirror and tap the door lever. The sound of brakes and the low idle had been there since I sat down. I stood when the doors opened. I pulled the handle up until it clicked. I walked the six steps to the curb and the sun hit the top of my head and the back of my neck. A woman with a stroller passed on my left. A man pulled a duffel behind me. My suitcase wheels rattled over the joint in the sidewalk.
Then a hand reached for the handle.
Not grabbing yet, just hovering, then closing. Large, familiar, the nails trimmed short. I saw the sweat on the back of it before I saw his face. I stopped. The bus door was a foot away. I could see the rubber edge, the yellow trim chipped near the bottom, the driver glancing at us. I turned my head slow. My breathing went shallow without me telling it to.
"Julian?" I said. It came out smaller than I meant, one word and a pause after it that hung there. I hadn't said his name in weeks except to the lawyer.
He was right there, too close for a sidewalk, charcoal suit holding heat, dark wavy hair pushed back like he'd run his hands through it. His forehead shone. His chest rose fast under the open collar. He didn't look angry the way I'd prepared for. He looked tense and restrained, like he was holding something back with his jaw.
"You really think you can just leave like that?" he said. His voice was low and out of breath. He didn't shout. That was worse. People near the bus pretended not to hear.
I tightened my grip until my knuckles went white against the black handle. The telescoping metal was warm. My blazer sleeve rode up a half inch. I could feel the sun hard on my shoulders and the shadow of the shelter cutting across my skirt.
May you like
"Let go, Julian. I already signed the divorce," I said. I kept my eyes on his, wide, surprised at how steady I sounded.
He didn't let go. The bus gave a pneumatic hiss. The driver called, "Boarding," without looking at us. Behind Julian, traffic moved and a glass building reflected the bus and the two of us locked around a suitcase handle. My throat was dry. His hand was still on mine, not pulling, just not leaving. The door was open. My name was about to be called or the door was about to close. I didn't step.
