After He Chose His Mistress Over Our Dead Baby

Mason called me on a Wednesday morning. I was elbows-deep in ice at the counter, sorting mackerel. My phone buzzed against my hip. I almost didn't answer.

"I'm throwing you a birthday party," he said. No hello. No how are you. Just that.

I wiped my hands on my apron. "What?"

"Your birthday. Next Saturday. The Plaza."

My birthday was in three weeks. I didn't correct him.

"Mason, you don't have to—"

"It's done. I'll send you the details."

He hung up before I could say anything else.

I stood there with fish scales drying on my wrists and a phone going dark in my hand. Lena looked over from the register.

"Good news?"

I touched the silver band. "I think so."

I spent two days' wages on a dress. Navy blue. Simple. It had a label I recognized from magazines. The girl at the shop folded it into tissue paper like it mattered. I carried it home on the subway holding the bag on my lap with both hands.

Saturday came. I did my hair in the bathroom mirror. I put on the dress. It fit. I looked at myself and thought, he's trying. He's making room for me again.

The Plaza lobby smelled like lilies and old money. A man in a vest directed me to the ballroom on the third floor. I walked up the stairs because I didn't trust myself in the elevator. My shoes were new. They pinched.

The ballroom doors were open. I heard music. Voices. Laughter that sounded expensive.

I stepped inside.

The room was full. Fifty people, maybe more. Chandeliers. White tablecloths. A string quartet in the corner playing something I didn't know the name of. There was a cake on a center table. Three tiers. White fondant. My name in gold script I could see from the door.

Nobody turned when I walked in.

I scanned the crowd. I didn't recognize a single face. These weren't my friends. I didn't have friends who wore pearls before seven or held champagne flutes like they'd been born with them.

Then I saw Mason.

He was near the windows. Navy suit. The one he wore to things that mattered. He was talking to a man I didn't know. Laughing. Easy. His hand on the man's shoulder.

I started toward him.

That's when I saw her.

Rosalia Harvey stood three feet from Mason in a dress the color of snow. Her hair was pinned in a way that looked effortless and cost a fortune. She held a champagne flute in one hand. The other rested on the back of a chair. She was talking to a circle of women who leaned in like she was the only person in the room worth hearing.

I stopped walking.

Mason glanced up. Our eyes met. He nodded once. Not a smile. Just acknowledgment. Then he turned back to his conversation.

I stood there in my new dress that suddenly felt wrong.

A waiter passed with a tray. I took a glass of champagne I didn't want. I held it because I needed something to hold.

Rosalia's voice carried. It always did.

"Zoey!"

She was walking toward me. Smiling. The circle of women turned to watch.

She stopped in front of me. Her perfume was something French. Something that cost more than my rent.

"You look lovely," she said. Loud enough that people nearby could hear. "So brave to wear something off-the-rack to The Plaza."

The women behind her made a sound. Not quite laughter. Something softer. Something worse.

My face went hot. I looked down at my dress. The label I'd been so proud of. The tissue paper I'd saved.

"I—"

"No, I mean it," Rosalia continued. She touched my arm. Her nails were perfect. "It's refreshing. So authentic."

She smiled. She sipped her champagne. She walked back to her circle.

I stood there holding my glass. My hands were shaking. I turned toward Mason.

He was three feet away. He'd heard everything. I knew he had.

He looked at me. Not long. Just a glance. Then he looked away.

Rosalia laughed at something someone said. She touched her collarbone. She shivered.

"Are you cold?" Mason's voice.

I watched him cross the space between them. I watched him take off his jacket. I watched him drape it over her shoulders. His hands lingered for a second on the fabric.

"Better?" he asked.

She smiled up at him. "Much."

The room kept talking. The quartet kept playing. Someone clinked a glass and made a toast I didn't hear.

I set my champagne on a table. I walked to the cake. My name in gold. Three tiers I hadn't asked for.

Nobody sang. Nobody lit candles.

I stood next to it alone. I could feel eyes on me. Not curious. Pitying.

I stayed for twenty minutes. Then I picked up my purse and walked out. Nobody stopped me. Nobody called my name.

Mason didn't follow.

I took the subway home. I hung the dress in the closet. I didn't wear it again.

---

Two weeks later, I was at a gallery opening in Chelsea. Mason had texted me the address. Said he'd meet me there. I wore black. I kept my hands in my pockets.

He wasn't there when I arrived. I stood near a painting I didn't understand and pretended to read the placard.

Two women stood behind me. Close enough I could hear them.

"Did you see her at The Plaza?"

"The fish girl?"

A laugh. Quiet. Cruel.

"I heard she still smells like the docks. Even in Chanel."

"She wasn't wearing Chanel, darling. That's the point."

More laughter.

I didn't turn around. I stood very still. My chest felt tight. My hands were cold.

I left the gallery. I walked six blocks before I stopped. I called Mason.

He picked up on the third ring.

"Zoey."

"People are talking about me."

Silence.

"Mason, they're saying things. About where I worked. About—"

"You're overreacting."

I stopped walking. "What?"

"Rosalia wouldn't do that. She's been nothing but kind to you."

I stood on the corner of Tenth Avenue. A taxi went by. Someone honked.

"She called my dress off-the-rack in front of fifty people."

"She was trying to make you feel comfortable."

I closed my eyes.

"Mason."

"I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow."

He hung up.

I stood there with the phone against my ear. I didn't move for a long time.

When I finally walked home, I passed a trash can on the corner. I stopped. I looked down at my left hand.

The silver band caught the streetlight.

I didn't take it off. Not yet.

But I thought about it.