Page 100 of Plus One

“Amen,” Monique said, pressing the paper against her fractured heart. The tears came then, burning tracks down her cheeks in fits and starts. She knew there would be much more crying today.

Eleanor stuffed a tissue into her hand. Tedrow’s arm went around her shoulders. Monique let them hold her because what else could she do? She’d run out of strength, run out of energy after pretending she was fine.

She was drowning. So far from fine. And the person who might have helped pull her to shore was a thousand miles away. She came with cancer and death and grief as dowry. He knew that. All of it, and he’d stayed anyway. She had a habit of choosing flight over fight. What Monique hadn’t known until now, with grief pressing on her from all directions, was that she’d chosen retreat when he’d chosen to be rooted.

She wasn’t okay with that.

The prayer ended. The cantor’s voice faded. People began to move toward the exits, murmuring about the shiva, about when they would head to the Levinsons’ penthouse.

Monique stood, smoothed her dress, arranged her face into something that wouldn’t worry anyone. With her mask firmly in place, she prepared to do what she did best: endure.

Even if enduring felt like slowly dying. Even if the only person who might have taught her the difference between surviving and living was someone she’d probably already lost.

Chickie’s mother found their group and greeted them like family. “Your being here means so much. We do hope you’re still up to joining us later.”

“Of course, Mrs. Levinson,” Dr. Tedrow responded. “We plan to see Chickie’s wishes through.”

Chickie’s wishes were an abbreviated shiva that included karaoke, board games, and chocolate fountains. She wanted people to laugh, and if they needed to cry, cry laughing.

Monique nodded, smiled, and said the right things. She watched herself do it, the smile, the right words and careful self-management. It made her sick to her stomach that she was so good at it. Masking this empty feeling with busyness. With tasks. All of it tissue paper over the void where comfort should be. The void where Maurice should be.

Eleanor linked arms with her. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Monique lied.

“Liar.”

Monique almost smiled. “Yeah.”

“You know,” Eleanor said carefully, “it’s okay to need people. To want comfort. To let someone—”

“I don’t know if I can handle this topic today, El.”

Eleanor squeezed her arm. “Okay. But when you’re ready, we’re here.”

Monique nodded because she couldn’t speak. If she spoke, she’d crack. If she cracked, she’d shatter. If she shattered, she’d have to admit that she’d never been fine in the first place. She’d left him standing in Old San Juan. She’d promised to answer when he called, but she’d been too afraid even for that. Too certain that hearing his voice would break her.

So she’d let the calls go to voicemail. Let the texts pile up unread. Let another good thing slip away because she was too damaged to hold on. They filed out of the synagogue into the brutal January cold. Monique pulled her coat tighter, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.

CHAPTER 26Maurice

Laughter and off-key singing were not at all what Maurice expected to hear when he exited the elevator to the Levinsons’ Lincoln Park penthouse.

The lobby was a round foyer with a console table where a guest book sat open. He found a pen, signed his name, and then scanned backward through the entries. There—Monique Moore, third signature down. Her handwriting was a careful, practiced script, each letter precisely formed.

He traced the curve of her M with his eyes. Such a small thing, ink on paper, but it felt monumental. Like the difference between reading about Egyptian tombs in a textbook and standing inside one, seeing hieroglyphics carved by human hands, realizing that what had been abstract was suddenly and powerfully real.

He would see her. Touch her. But would she let him stay?

A young man approached from farther in the apartment. Dewy blue eyes, warm smile. Yarmulke perched on peachy-blond hair. “How do you know Charlotte?”

“I don’t. I know her friend. Here for support.”If she’ll have me,Maurice wanted to say, but held his tongue.

The man’s eyes smiled before his mouth did. “I’m Derek Tedrow.” He extended his hand.

Maurice took it, the name clicking into place. “Dr. T?”

“Ah, so she does talk about me.” Tedrow grinned and hummed.