“Hey, how was your day?” I said as I leaned in to kiss him. Stephen was only a few inches taller than me, around five foot eight, but he had a much larger presence because of his confidence, which some people perceived as arrogance.

“Hi sweetie. My day was busy, and everybody is slamming their heads against the wall over the Copley account. I actually have to take a conference call in a few minutes,” he said as he handed me a food container. “Yellow curry, right?”

“Uh-huh.” He never asked me how my day went. I opened the lid and then immediately closed it. “Is this chicken?”

“Yeah, that’s what you like.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m a vegetarian, Stephen. I have been for ten years.”

“Yeah, but I thought you ate chicken.”

“Normally people don’t call themselves vegetarians if they eat chicken.”

“God, I’m sorry. I could have sworn I’ve seen you eat yellow curry before.”

“With tofu.”

“Well, I would offer you mine, but it has chicken in it, too,” he said as he pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket.

“I’ll just eat the rice.”

He held his finger to his mouth to quiet me before answering his phone. “Stephen Brooks. Yeah, I’ll take it. Hey, what’s up, man? Oh, you’re kidding, right? Two million. That’s what I told her.”

As Stephen continued his conversation, I wiped out the rice and began sorting the laundry. When I bent over, he moved behind me and pushed himself against me. I turned around to find him smirking.

I mouthed, You’re so dirty.

You’re so hot, he mouthed back.

Stephen was attractive in a clean-cut businessman kind of way. He was always clean-shaven. He had a dark receding hairline and dark brown eyes that looked almost black, and he wore only a suit or his gym clothes. He never dressed casually. I had on ripped jeans and a University of Illinois sweatshirt. We were mismatched in many ways, and although there was physical chemistry, I never felt like our relationship could grow beyond what it was. He had never introduced me to his family. On holidays he would go to his parents in the suburbs and I would go to Rose’s. We rarely spent time in each other’s apartments. After Rose died, I isolated myself even more, believing that I had to learn to be alone, so I never pushed things with Stephen. He never pushed for more, either. I stayed with Stephen because it was comfortable. I stayed with Stephen because he was nice and I thought he was all I had, but after two years, he was still bringing me yellow curry with chicken.

I jumped up to sit on the washer. When Stephen ended his call, he walked toward me but didn’t put his phone away; his head was down, staring at the screen. I parted my legs so he could stand closer. Without looking up, he raised a finger and said, “Hold on, I just have to shoot this text off.” It was amazing how lonely I could feel when I wasn’t alone. Sometimes when I was with Stephen, I felt even worse about my situation. I really had resigned myself to the fact that our relationship was mainly physical. It was just a release for both of us. Stephen had never read a single article I’d written. His excuse was that he liked to read business journals and sports articles. He wouldn’t even humor me.

“I’m going to California tomorrow for a story. It’s a huge one that Jerry has been trying to land for months.” He nodded, still staring at his phone. “Did you hear me? I’m going out of town tomorrow.”

He looked up and then leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on my lips. “Have a safe trip. I gotta take this call, Kate. I’m sorry. Will you bring my stuff up when it’s done? This is a really important call, a million-dollar account.” He kissed me again. I nodded then forced a smile. “Thanks, sweetie,” he said as he turned and headed for the basement door, taking his food with him.

Like I said, he wouldn’t give a shit.

That night when I went to Stephen’s apartment to drop off his clothes, he answered the door still wearing his suit. He had ditched the tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, but the phone was still attached to his ear.

He mouthed, Thank you. I’ll text you.

I handed over the basket full of his clothes and said, “You’re welcome” very quietly.

He liked to text me. He thought it was sexy to send dirty messages back and forth, but the less we connected in real life, the more meaningless those texts became.

Sure enough, two hours later, while I was lying in bed, I got a text from him.

Stephen: U looked amazing 2night

I would have normally come back with something like You weren’t so bad yourself, because at least Stephen was trying, and I felt like he meant well, but that night something became very clear to me. I began to visualize a relationship where I felt cherished. I couldn’t make out the face of the person who would be that for me, but somehow I knew it wasn’t Stephen.

I didn’t respond to him for several minutes. Instead, I got on Google and typed in R. J. Lawson. I scoured endlessly boring articles about his early successes and the contributions his inventions had made toward technological advancements in communications and security. There was little, if anything at all, about his personal life. One article showcased a server prototype he had revealed at a science expo, with a picture of him standing next to the machine. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, prepubescent with a mouth full of braces. I searched over and over for additional images, but every time his name was linked to an image, it was either of a computer gadget, the winery, or the logo for a charity organization he had formed. I would go into the interview knowing a lot about R. J. Lawson’s accomplishments and philanthropic work but very little about the man.

Checking the time, I figured I had given Stephen enough of the silent treatment.

Kate: If I looked so amazing 2night then y aren’t u in my bed right now??

Stephen: Early morning meeting. Have a safe trip. See you when you get back.

I didn’t respond. I just fell asleep thinking, I’m all I’ve got.

The next day I flew into San Francisco International Airport at two p.m. My first interview with R. J. Lawson was scheduled for five p.m., and I still had to get out of the city, over the heavily trafficked Golden Gate Bridge, and up to Napa Valley. I hoped that taxis were readily available once I got outside because I wouldn’t have much time to dillydally. I didn’t eat the plane food, so I was starving and starting to get a headache.

As I waited at the baggage carousel, I pulled out my travel itinerary from the coordinator at the Chicago Crier. Under the flight details it showed a reservation number for Avis Car Rental. I immediately dialed Jerry.

“Why is there a rental car reservation on my itinerary?”

“Well, hello to you, too. We got you a rental car because Napa is spread out. I thought you would want to go exploring while you’re there. Plus . . . cab fare just one way would have been more money.”

“I barely know how to drive, Jerry!”

“We have a driver’s license on file for you.”

“Yeah, I got my driver’s license after my high school boyfriend taught me how to drive in a mall parking lot. I haven’t driven since.”

“You press the gas to go, the brake to stop, and you steer with that giant wheel sitting in front of you. How hard could it be?”

“Fine, I just hope you have a big insurance policy. This is going to be a nightmare.” I hung up and reached for my suitcase, which of course was the last one to appear on the conveyer belt.

At Avis, a young female clerk showed me to the car. “I need to do a quick visual inspection to mark any existing damage. I’ll be real quick.”

“Knock yourself out.” I threw my bags in the trunk and then got into the driver’s seat. It was a small Toyota sedan, nothing fancy, but it looked very new. I felt for the ignition and then realized the clerk hadn’t given me the key yet.