“I have to go,” I say.

I turn, insert key into lock, all robotic. I see him come up behind me in the reflection on the window. His voice is close to my ear. I imagine I can feel his breath, but it’s probably just a blow of wind. I imagine myself pushing the door open and walking inside—the gallery swallowing me and pressing Kit out. The gallery would have to press him out, because I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

“Don’t push me out, Helena. I’m not ready to go.”

And what can you do in that moment but close your eyes as tightly as you can and try to control the trembling in your limbs. I turn around, the stupid girl that I am, and let him kiss me. He holds my face like he wants to keep me from pulling away. He doesn’t have anything to worry about. All my attention is…

His phone rings. That’s what ends our kiss. I am left pressed to the glass doors of the gallery. I can feel Greer’s warnings staring at my back—ripples upon ripples in blues and greens and blacks. I am blurry eyed, my chest aching from … what? Longing? I watch him answer his phone, our eyes connected, then a look of surprise takes over his face.

“Whose number is this?” His voice is hard. I wouldn’t like to be on the other side of that voice. I come out of my daze a little bit. I don’t need the gallery to hold me up anymore. I right myself, straightening my hair, which was mussed underneath Kit’s hands.

I have an uneasiness. It’s building by the second. And then Kit’s eyes find mine. He’s quiet as he listens, but I can see it on his face. I already know, before he hangs up the phone and slips it back into his pocket. We are over before we even start.

“It was Della,” he says. There’s a pause. “She’s pregnant.”

Not five minutes after she called Kit, Della posts a sonogram picture to Instagram. A perfectly timed scheme by a perfectly insecure girl. Helluva way to go about this, Dells. She captioned it: my little been. Been. As in I’ve been there. IF ONLY THERE’D BEEN SOMEONE TO PROOF THIS CAPTION. Her hashtag crushes me: #eightweeks. Right before he came back to PT. Oh my God, I feel so sick.

You’ll be okay, I tell myself. This isn’t even a big deal. I hung out with him, like, what? Five times? Fifty-five times? I married him once, and we had a baby, but he doesn’t know that. Plus, I’ve been through this before. A guy. A woman who is not me. A baby. But, what Neil did does not compare to this. Neil betrayed me, sure. But Neil and I were together because we were young, and it made sense. Had we really had a connection? Ha! No. Our connection was circumstantial. We went to the same school, had the same friends. We watched the same things on television because our friends were watching, and we needed something to talk about.

Kit hit me out of nowhere. I had a dream that made me take a closer look at a guy I was otherwise ignoring. And from that dream I discovered a connection. I don’t even think about the dream anymore. For the last eight weeks I’ve been living it.

But I don’t think about that as I answer calls, pack some pieces up for shipment, and deposit checks. I feel like all of my insides have been taken out and replaced with stuffing that has made me stiff, and numb, and mechanical. I do not get my usual text from Kit when it’s time to lock up and go home, so I stay later than usual. I remind myself of my granny, who moves from room to room, managing to look busy without really doing anything.

Kit is probably on his way back to Florida by now, a plastic cup of shitty wine in his hand. To think of him being so far away causes the muscles in my heart to stretch painfully. This isn’t okay. I am not okay. There is no one on the street when I leave. It’s eerily quiet; the only sound is of the rain and the distant hum of a generator. It’s a cold night; the wind has been touching the tops of the snowy mountains and blowing our way. I shrink deeper into my coat and look toward the cannery. I don’t want to be there. Or here. Or anywhere. I walk toward the harbor, my steps determined. Deep in my pocket, my wine cork sits clutched in my fist. I’m not feeling quite as numb as I was before. The shock has worn off and filled with something sharper. I think it’s called realization. Ha! The Belle is not in her slip. It’s the first time I’ve found her spot empty. I stand on the dock, shivering and wondering what to do next.

“Helena.”

I’ll always find you.

“Don’t bother,” I say without turning around. He comes to stand next to me, and we stare at the water together. I can see my breath.

“I thought you would have left by now.”

He looks down at his feet, and I hear him sigh. “I fly back tomorrow.”

“Ah.”

More silence.

“A baby. You must be very excited.”

“Don’t, Helena. This is … I didn’t plan for this. I have to go talk to her, take care of things.”

“You have to go take care of your family,” I say, turning to face him. “That’s the right thing. I mean, what were we even doing here, Kit?”

He makes a face, starts to say something, then looks away, grinding his teeth. “We were doing something good. My intentions were to get to know you. To really get to know you,” he says.

“We weren’t doing something good. It just felt good. I betrayed Della. What was I? Your little distraction before you settled down?”

He’s bouncing on his heels, shaking his head like he can’t believe what I’m saying.

“You know that’s not true. We have something, Helena. In another life, it would have been a beautiful something.”