It matters a lot to me, Lauren. I can’t do that to Vicky. I can tell her, yes. I can tell her tonight, when she gets home, that I’ve met you, that I’m going to get a divorce and marry you. But I can’t file for divorce before November 3. I can’t file before our tenth anniversary. If I do, she’ll be cut off from the trust money.

I told you that, all of that. “I’ll tell Vicky tonight,” I said. “I’ll move out of the house and get another place. We can move in together right now. I just can’t file for divorce yet. It’s less than a month away. What difference does a month make?”

“She has no right to that money,” you said. “You inherited it from your father. It’s your money. She doesn’t deserve it.”

“‘Deserve it’? We’ve been married for almost ten years.”

“And why do you think that is?” you said. “Do you not see it, Simon?”

I didn’t catch your meaning. Or maybe I didn’t want to.

You paused, like you were searching for words. Then you breathed out like you were done sugarcoating it.

“You two aren’t in love and you never were,” you said.

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. “That’s not true.”

“She never loved you, Simon. She needed someone to take care of her. And you did. And now she’s eyeballing that trust money that’s so close she can taste it. She’s put in nine years and eleven months.”

I stepped back, almost falling over the bed. “You make it sound like a prison sentence.”

You walked over and took my hands. “You deserve so much better,” you said. “You want to do right by Vicky, then fine. Pay her alimony off your professor’s salary. But don’t give her millions of dollars. That’s your money.”

You kissed me, first softly then deeply, my internal thermometer ratcheting up. “You mean our money,” I said.

“You know I don’t care about the money,” you whispered, reaching for my belt buckle.

“I know.”

You dropped to your knees and worked the zipper on my pants.

“Promise me you’ll file now,” you said.

42

Simon

I decide to go for a run in the morning, a version of my Five at Five that I’ve abandoned since I started running at nights from the law school to Wicker Park. I miss jogging on the west side of Chicago, but today is not the day to make up for that. This morning, I run instead the other direction, west from my house, toward Grace Village. Toward Lauren’s house.

I’ve driven my car over there in the mornings enough. If I am too regular in doing so, one of those nosy neighbors might start to notice. That’s the last thing I need.

I drove over here yesterday morning and parked down the street from Lauren’s house, arriving at 5:30 a.m. It was the first time in a few weeks.

I was waiting for Conrad’s town car to pick him up at six sharp and drive down to the East Bank Club for his morning workout. But no town car ever came.

Now here I am, jogging up, down, and near Lathrow Avenue, crossing streets, switching directions, trying not to stand out as the sun begins to show its face on a Friday morning, as five-thirty becomes five-forty-five, as five-fifty becomes six o’clock, as six o’clock becomes ten after six.