Page 31 of Buttons

It does? I suppose since Julian and I arrived separately, it would. No matter.

“Thank you,” I say simply.

I step into the ballroom, bracing myself. This space holds memories in every corner, flat with Julian’s rules. I can still hear him instructing me on which board members to charm and when to extract myself from conversations with grace.

My fingers instinctively reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray as someone shouts, “Elowen!”

The voice belongs to Margaret White, the wife of Julian’s golf partner. She descends upon me to air-kiss both my cheeks.

“You look different,” she says, the pause containing volumes. “I love the hair. So brave of you.”

Brave. As if cutting my hair was akin to climbing Everest. But perhaps, in the world we inhabited together, it is an act of courage to look like yourself.

“Thank you, Margaret. It’s good to see you.”

“We’ve all been wondering if you’d come tonight. You know”—she looks around, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper—“after everything.”

So theydoknow. I wonder if they assume I’m having a midlife crisis or a mental breakdown.

“I wouldn’t miss supporting the children’s hospital,” I say. “The work they do is important.”

Margaret’s expression shifts to sympathy. “Of course. And how areyoudoing? Really?”

Eight years ago, I would have given the expected answer: “Fine, thank you.” Four weeks ago, I would have smiled through gritted teeth and changed the subject. Tonight, I look her directly in the eyes as I explain how I’m volunteering for the animal shelter and how eager I am to continue to support our community in this new capacity.

She blinks, unprepared for my direct response and careful pivot. Before she can recover, I excuse myself and move deeper into the crowd.

Similar exchanges follow. Tara Jones, whose husband runs the accounting firm Julian uses, wants to know if I’m “coping okay.” Joseph Brenner, a potential investor Julian’s been in-talks with, awkwardly offers condolences as if someone has died. Each interaction confirms what I already suspected, which is how my departure from Julian has become the latest subject of speculation. Meanwhile, I reframe the narrative as trying new experiences and putting my skills to better use at the shelter.

After gosh knows how long, I scan the room, instinctively searching for Julian in his preferred spot near the back exit. For years, he positioned himself there. It’s close enough to the door for a quick escape if needed, and far enough from the stage to avoid unwanted attention. Strategic, like everything else about him.

But the back corner holds only a cluster of minor executives I vaguely recognize. There’s no Julian. Perhaps he didn’t come after all.

I can experience this event as myself, do some networking for the shelter, donate to the children’s hospital, appreciate the art displayed by young patients, and leave without the confrontation I’ve been dreading. It’s not that I haven’t spokento Julian at all—he’s called the children every night—but this will be the first time I’ve actuallyseenhim.

Since I don’t see him in the back, I exit the main hall and make my way to the children’s artwork display in the entryway. This was always my favorite part of the gala. Julian would walk past these paintings without a glance, focused on who might be watching us enter. Meanwhile, I always lingered, trying to absorb the hope and resilience captured in clumsy brushstrokes.

Once, I gently touched my favorite piece, and Julian shuddered and made me wash my hands. “Too many germs,” he’d said. He touches what he must and avoids what is optional.

Tonight, I take my time. There’s a painting of a green dragon breathing a bright rainbow of fire, a collage of a family holding hands, and a magazine cutout depicting a hospital room where the medical equipment has been reimagined as superheroes.

“The kids outdid themselves this year,” a voice says beside me.

I turn to find Dr. Collins, the hospital’s head of pediatric oncology. Unlike the others, her smile seems genuinely warm rather than curious or pitying.

“They always do,” I reply, my voice softening. “This one’s my favorite.” I point to a painting of a small girl with no hair, surrounded by stars.

“Sophia drew that,” Dr. Collins says. “She finished her final round of chemo last month.”

Something loosens in my chest. “That’s amazing. I take it she’s okay?”

“Yes, she’s in remission with an excellent prognosis.”

I nod, swallowing against the sudden tightness in my throat. With renewed purpose, I return to the main hall and move through the crowd toward the donation table. That’s when I seethem.

They’re positioned prominently at a table near the front, and the absolute center of attention. Julian, in his perfectly tailoredtuxedo, looks slimmer than when I left. And beside him, looking radiant in a gown that hugs every perfect curve, is Carmella Ruiz—the very woman Julian compared me to; the woman who scored higher in “physical appearance” and “social connections.” I haven’t seen her sincethat night.

Julian’s hand rests at the small of her back, his fingers splayed possessively against the fabric of her dress. It’s a gesture I’m used to myself. He used to guide me through rooms the same way. She’s everything I’m not. She’s tall where I’m average, sleek where I’m soft, angular where I’m rounded. And apparently, what is most important, her nose is straight and narrow, exactly as Julian prefers.