After My Groom Ran to His Mistress Again

The Tribeca penthouse had a doorman who knew my face. He waved me through without questions. I rode the elevator to the twentieth floor with a roll of packing tape in one hand and my apartment key in the other.

I'd lived in this building for six months. Almost lived. I'd kept clothes in the closet and toiletries in the bathroom. I'd cooked Sunday dinners in that kitchen. I'd fallen asleep on that couch waiting for Ambrose to come home from late meetings.

But I'd never changed the art on the walls. Never rearranged the furniture. It had always felt like his space. A place I was visiting.

The elevator opened. I walked down the hall. Unlocked the door.

Renata answered it from the inside.

She wore my bathrobe. The soft gray one I'd bought at a boutique in SoHo. It hung open over a silk nightgown, the belt tied loose at her waist. She held a mug in both hands — white ceramic with a chip on the rim. I knew that chip. I'd dropped the mug two months ago and kept it anyway.

"Oh, Ember." Her smile was sugar over glass. "Ambrose didn't mention you were coming."

I looked past her into the living room. The furniture had been moved. The couch faced a different direction. Frames hung on the walls — photographs I didn't recognize. Renata at a beach. Renata laughing in a restaurant. Renata and Ambrose on what looked like a ski trip, his arm around her shoulders.

My throw pillows were gone. The ones I'd sewn by hand, navy fabric with cream stitching.

I stepped past Renata without answering. Walked into the bedroom. My clothes still hung in the closet, pushed to one side. Renata's dresses took up the rest of the rod — white and cream and pale pink, a gradient of calculated innocence.

I opened the dresser. My underwear was gone. Renata's filled the drawer instead, lace and silk in shades that matched her dresses.

"I hope you don't mind," Renata said from the doorway. She sipped from my chipped mug. "Ambrose said I could stay here while I look for a new place. It's been so hard since—" She trailed off. Let the silence do the work.

I pulled my suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. Started folding clothes.

"You must be so busy with wedding planning," Renata continued. Her voice stayed light. Friendly. "Oh, wait. I guess that's off now, isn't it?"

I folded a sweater. Placed it in the suitcase. Reached for another.

"Ambrose has been wonderful," she said. "So supportive. He's been helping me through such a difficult time. I don't know what I'd do without him."

I packed in silence. Clothes. Shoes. The jewelry box from my grandmother. It took twenty minutes to clear the bedroom. I carried the suitcase to the living room and started on the kitchen.

My spice rack. The cast-iron skillet I'd seasoned myself. The set of wooden spoons I'd bought at a farmer's market in Vermont.

Renata followed me. "This must be so awkward for you."

I wrapped the skillet in a dishtowel.

"I mean, it's awkward for me too," she said. "Being here in what was almost your home. But Ambrose insisted. He said I needed somewhere safe."

I packed the spices into a cardboard box. Oregano. Basil. Sumac. I'd arranged them alphabetically.

"Are you taking all of this?" Renata asked. She gestured at the kitchen. "Ambrose might need some of it."

I looked at her. Really looked. She was beautiful. Delicate features and wide eyes and that trembling smile that made men want to rescue her.

I went back to packing.

It took three hours to strip the apartment of everything I'd ever brought. The movers arrived at eight PM. I'd called them that afternoon, hired them for a flat rate, cash. They loaded boxes into their truck without questions.

I walked through the empty penthouse one last time. The walls looked bare where my artwork had hung. The kitchen counters were blank expanses of marble. Even the bathroom felt hollow without my shampoo bottles and face wash.

Renata sat on the couch — Ambrose's couch now, I supposed — watching me with that same sugar-glass smile.

I set my key on the kitchen counter. The metal made a small sound against the marble.

"Goodbye, Renata," I said.

Her smile faltered. Just for a second. Like she'd expected something else. Drama, maybe. Tears or shouting or some kind of scene she could use later.

I walked out.

The movers took my things to the Brooklyn apartment. I tipped them well and carried boxes up three flights of stairs. By midnight, everything was unpacked and arranged. My spices in the cabinet. My cast-iron skillet on the stove. My throw pillows on my own couch.

I made tea in my grandmother's ceramic pot. Sat at my kitchen table. Opened my leather journal for the first time in eight months.

The first page was dated from before Ambrose. Before the engagement. When I'd still been just myself.

I turned to a blank page and started writing.

Three days later, I registered my business. Russell Interiors. I printed business cards on thick cream cardstock. Set up a website with photographs of student projects from design school.

I took my first client meeting in a coffee shop in Park Slope. Young couple, first baby on the way, wanting to turn their spare bedroom into a nursery. They had a modest budget and clear ideas about what they wanted.

I sketched while they talked. Showed them fabric swatches. We talked about cribs and changing tables and where to put the rocking chair for late-night feedings.

They hired me on the spot.

I went home that night and added their project to my calendar. Started sourcing materials. Made lists and checked prices and drafted floor plans.

For the first time in three years, I fell asleep without my phone on the nightstand.

I didn't check for texts from Ambrose.

I didn't wonder where he was or who he was with.

I just closed my eyes in my own apartment, in my own bed, and let the work I'd done that day hold me steady.