Page 29 of Buttons

“But—”

“Elowen.” She fixes me with her direct gaze. “Those fancy people already know who you are. They’ll listen to you. That’s an advantage we can’t afford to waste.”

Sarah jumps up. “I’ll pick up the kids from school and keep them. We’ll make it a pizza and painting night, and then when they sleep, I’ll grade my students’ work.”

They’re removing my excuses one by one, leaving me with only the truth: I’m afraid. Afraid of seeing Julian. Afraid of facing those people who’ve watched our marriage from the outside, never knowing the slow erosion happening within. Afraid of standing on my own. But something else is growing stronger than the fear; it’s the same determination that carried me out of Julian’s house with the children and a few suitcases. It’s the conviction that I’m more than what he made me.

“Okay,” I say, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. “Consider me your fairy godpossum.”

Sarah whoops in celebration while Beatrix gives a satisfied nod. “Good. While you’re getting ready, think about which animals you want to highlight for the most attention.”

“Cyclops, obviously,” Sarah suggests. “Everyone loves a one-eyed pirate cat with an attitude.”

“And the beagle pair,” I add. “People respond to loyalty.”

“Rusty, too,” Beatrix says. “That three-legged shepherd has more heart than most humans I know.”

“And Buttons,” I add. “The long-haired cat with a loveable button nose.” Beatrix and Sarah coo, unaware how happy that makes me.

We spend the next fifteen minutes selecting photos and crafting brief stories for each animal. I download them to my phone, creating a subtle digital portfolio I can show to potential donors.

As we finish, Beatrix pulls a business card from her desk drawer. It’s simple, no-frills, with just the shelter’s name and contact information. “Take a stack of these. Make sure they end up in the right pockets.”

I accept the cards, tucking them into my purse. “I’ll do my best.”

“We know you will,” Sarah says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “And hey, if Julian gives you any trouble, just text me. I’ll come key his car.”

Despite my anxiety, I laugh. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“The offer stands,” she insists with a wink.

Of course it does.

I gather my things and head for the door, my mind already racing through preparations. Which dress to wear. How tostyle my newly short, wavy hair. What to say when—not if—I encounter Julian.

“Elowen,” Beatrix calls as I reach the doorway. I turn back, finding her serious, weathered face, but there’s something like respect in her eyes. “Remember why you’re going. It’s not about him anymore. It’s aboutthem.” She nods toward the wall of photos, at the faces of animals waiting for someone to care enough to save them.

“I know.” And I do. This isn’t about proving something to Julian; it’s not even about proving something to myself. It’s about using the skills and connections I’ve built over the years for something I’m passionate about.

Chapter 11

Julian

The camera flashes hit me.Smile, Julian. Wave, Julian. Pretend everything’s fine, Julian.I guide Carmella toward the red carpet with my hand barely touching the small of her back. We look exactly like what everyone expects. No one would guess I haven’t slept in days.

Elowen hasn’t begged for her job back. In fact, she’s posted a selfie on social media that screams the opposite. She’s happily living without me, and though I’ve called Leo and Meredith every night at bedtime, I miss them. I’m hoping seeing Carmella with me at this gala will be the wake-up call she needs.

Carmella murmurs, her crimson lips barely moving, “Robert from the Thompson Architecture Group is watching.”

I adjust my posture automatically when Robert Thompson stares at me. He’s a strict man. Word on the street is that he’s disowned both of his sons. His oldest, Steven, for not followingthe Thompson way, and his youngest for marrying a non-approved social worker.

My tuxedo feels too tight around the collar despite being custom-tailored. I’ve lost weight since Elowen left. Meanwhile, Carmella moves with elegance beside me. Her black gown hugs every curve, strategically revealing just enough skin to be noticed without crossing into inappropriate. Her dark hair is swept up in a complex arrangement that probably required three hours and two assistants. I should feel proud to have her on my arm, but I feel nothing because I don’t love her.

The annual Children’s Hospital Charity Gala sprawls before us. I’ve attended this event for eight consecutive years with Elowen. Always with her quiet presence beside me, her small hand in mine, her button nose crinkling when she smiled at the children’s artwork I never noticed until she did, displayed in the entryway.

Tonight, the artwork blurs as we pass. Carmella doesn’t even glance at it.

“Julian Plaza! Over here!”