I stood alone again among the lilacs, heart racing, unsure whether I’d just imagined it all, until Grant took a sharp breath beside me and said, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

I stood on their back patio, surrounded by people whose names I couldn’t remember and whose smiles didn’t reach me. Everything smelled faintly of garden roses, expensive perfume, and a wine I couldn’t pronounce. Sabine floated from guest to guest like a hostess in a dream, laughing softly, touching arms lightly, her sundress crisp and white like fresh linen. You’d think the world belonged to her. Maybe it did. I watched her refill glasses and pose for photos beside Grant as if nothing had just happened. Not a flicker of unease crossed her face. She was practiced, polished, impenetrable.

The invitation to this party had arrived just two days ago. A forwarded message from Grant. No call, no personal note. Before that, I hadn’t heard from him in over six weeks. His last birthday message to me was a text with a gift card to a store I couldn’t afford to step into. The year before, a necklace arrived with a receipt still in the box—but no voice, no visit. No question of whether I needed anything or anyone.