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By Root 547 0

at me for a minute, staring blankly. I had to remind myself that I had a different face now. He might not even recognize me. David looked older, heavier, tired around the eyes. His hair—what was left of it—was white, and he wore glasses, which were new, and a white cotton button-down shirt, untucked, and worn corduroy pants. There was a gold wedding band, the one we’d bought together or its twin, on his left hand, and, as I stood in the hallway that smelled like soup, listening to an air conditioner whine and someone’s TV play the nightly news, he smiled at me. His face lit up and he looked handsome again; handsome and as young as he’d been when we were together. “Well,” he said. “Look who’s here.”

It was cool inside. That was the first thing I noticed as David took my Mexico tote bag and set it by the door. “Can I get you anything to drink? I’ve got a nice Scotch,” he said, gesturing toward a bar cart made of wrought iron and mirrored panels. I looked around, remembering: the Turkish rugs he’d layered over the hardwood floors, the colorful abstract paintings on the walls, the green velvet couch, the art books and novels and old vinyl albums lined alphabetically on handmade shelves that stretched from the floor to the top of the twelve-foot ceiling, with a rolling wooden ladder in the corner. I thought back to when I was eighteen and thought this was the most beautiful place I’d ever been. We’d made love, and I’d waited until he’d fallen asleep, then crept out of his bed and ate everything in his refrigerator, including an entire jar of strawberry jam.

“Just some water, please.”

He handed me a jelly glass filled from a filter-pitcher. I sat down on the couch and cupped the cool glass in my hands, letting him look me over. “What,” he asked me pleasantly, “did you do to yourself?”

I managed a little laugh. “It’s been a while, you know.”

“You were so beautiful,” David said. “Why would you want to change?”

I shrugged.

“Sammie.” He reached out and touched my hair.

“I got married again.” The words came out in a croak. “In New York. An older man.”

He had moved to stand behind me. I couldn’t see his face, but I imagined that he was smiling. “Sounds like you’ve got a type.”

“You know,” I said, without turning, without looking at him, “we never got divorced.”

His hand moved slowly in my hair. “I got the papers you sent, and I know I should have signed them. I knew you weren’t coming back. But I never did. I just kept hoping . . .” His hand was on my shoulder now. “Are you happy?” he asked.

Eyes closed, I whispered, “For a while, I was.”

“Did you ever think of me?”

“Sometimes.” It was true. In Los Angeles, when I was broke and lonely, getting rejected at auditions a dozen times a week, I’d think of David, who had always been unfailingly kind. I’d remember the coat he’d given me, the mugs of milky coffee, his mouth warm against the back of my neck. Little Cat, Little Cat.

“My husband and I ... we were supposed to have a baby. With a surrogate.” He came to sit beside me on the couch. His eyebrows drew together as he studied me. I met his gaze, telling myself I wasn’t the girl he’d known, the girl he’d saved, the cat who’d crept out of his bed and out of his house one summer morning with all the cash in his wallet, the girl who’d sold her engagement ring at a West Hollywood pawnshop and tried to think of that brief, early marriage as the first of many skins she’d shed, the first of many selves she’d outgrow.

“About that divorce,” I said.

He sighed, nodding. “I figured someday you’d be back for that.”

“I should have done it a while ago.” The truth was, I’d hoped that sending him the papers would be enough, that he’d sign them and file them and it would all be over without my having to do a thing.

“Does it mean,” he asked, “that you’re not really married to the other guy?”

“That’s a little unclear. He’s dead now.”

“Oh.” He looked sympathetic, and I felt stabbed through with remorse. He wasn’t a bad guy, and he’d never done anything except try to help me. I had treated him poorly, and being young and mistreated myself