In Chap­ter 50, titled “We Solve Mur­ders,” François Lou­bet pro­vides an intrigu­ing update through a cor­re­spon­dence with his asso­ciate, Joe Blow. Lou­bet humor­ous­ly notes the absur­di­ty of their sit­u­a­tion, par­tic­u­lar­ly the sug­ges­tion that he should not kill Amy Wheel­er. He reflects on the neces­si­ty of her demise, explain­ing that Amy, who served as his body­guard in Lon­don, is cru­cial for his plans. By hir­ing Rob Ken­na, Lou­bet secures a lay­er of anonymi­ty, mak­ing it eas­i­er to posi­tion Amy as a con­ve­nient scape­goat should any­thing go awry.

Lou­bet details his machi­na­tions: evi­dence, includ­ing Amy’s blood, has been strate­gi­cal­ly placed at mul­ti­ple crime scenes. Although she has no motive, the pres­ence of her blood—an unde­ni­able connection—will lead any inves­ti­ga­tion toward her. He express­es con­fi­dence that even those close to Amy may doubt her inno­cence, and he sees her as a form of insur­ance against being impli­cat­ed in his crimes.

How­ev­er, Lou­bet is aware that the moment Amy dies, his plan will take a sig­nif­i­cant turn. He intends to inform author­i­ties about her death, prompt­ing them to com­pare her blood with what remains at the crime scenes, effec­tive­ly seal­ing his ali­bi. He acknowl­edges the dichoto­my of keep­ing her alive as insur­ance while also con­sid­er­ing the poten­tial need for her elim­i­na­tion.

As he con­tem­plates his next moves, Lou­bet real­izes that once his cur­rent issues are settled—such as ensur­ing Amy’s death—he needs to dig deep­er to under­stand Joe Blow’s iden­ti­ty and con­sid­er the same fate for him. Amidst these con­sid­er­a­tions, Lou­bet remains focused on cut­ting ties with Max­i­mum Impact while still uti­liz­ing influ­encers to orches­trate his finan­cial schemes. His con­fi­dence in man­ag­ing these loose ends reflects a men­tal­i­ty that thrives on decep­tion and con­trol, humor­ous­ly not­ing that there are always more “fools” at every turn who can be manip­u­lat­ed for his ben­e­fit. The chap­ter clos­es with a resolve to nav­i­gate the com­plex­i­ties of his web while min­i­miz­ing expo­sure.

In Chap­ter 50 of “All the Col­ors of the Dark,” the char­ac­ter Grace observes that the pro­tag­o­nist, Patch, is unwell. He has been feel­ing sick for an extend­ed peri­od, expe­ri­enc­ing a burn­ing sen­sa­tion and shiv­er­ing in bed. Despite his con­di­tion, he attempts to com­mu­ni­cate with­out reveal­ing the extent of his dis­com­fort. Grace describes a scene at the ice rink in Rock­e­feller Cen­ter, paint­ing a vivid pic­ture of the night, snow, and the two of them feel­ing “full” after din­ing at Bar­bet­ta, a restau­rant. She play­ful­ly men­tions a sauce stain on Patch’s shirt, which he can’t see, and offers to clean it, caus­ing them both to laugh.

The con­ver­sa­tion reveals that Patch feels lost, but Grace reas­sures him that he is less lost with her pres­ence. They dis­cuss their lim­it­ed expe­ri­ences, with Patch admit­ting he hasn’t trav­eled much beyond Mon­ta Clare. Grace encour­ages him to see the broad­er world and promis­es to show it to him. Imagery built through Grace’s words allows Patch to envi­sion the city beyond—tall build­ings, refract­ed lights, and the hum of urban life filled with music.

As Grace helps Patch to his feet, they con­front the phys­i­cal pain he is endur­ing, yet she sug­gests they imag­ine them­selves on the ice, sur­round­ed by stars, lying in the cen­ter and look­ing up. Patch rec­og­nizes the music they’ve been hear­ing, acknowl­edg­ing the dark place they might find them­selves in. Despite the beau­ty of their moment togeth­er, Patch is unaware of the sever­i­ty of his injuries, includ­ing a punc­tured lung and a rup­tured spleen, qui­et­ly lead­ing him toward death.

They briefly share a dance, embody­ing the inno­cent joy of young love, but the real­i­ty of their sit­u­a­tion looms. as Grace soft­ly hints at their inevitable dis­cov­ery, lead­ing to a ten­der kiss as the music fades, high­light­ing the pro­found con­nec­tion they share amid the dark­ness.

In Chap­ter Fifty, Nina recounts the final­i­ty of her escape from an abu­sive rela­tion­ship with Andy. She reflects on his past con­trol­ling and demean­ing actions, includ­ing his attempts to pro­claim her insane and her con­fine­ment. Despite being oust­ed by Andy, she remains wary until their divorce is final­ized, fear­ing any indi­ca­tion of her own desire for sep­a­ra­tion could ruin her plans. Lying in a hotel bed, Nina plans to col­lect her daugh­ter, Cecelia, from camp the fol­low­ing day, con­tem­plat­ing a new start away from Andy, espe­cial­ly grate­ful that Andy has no legal rights over Cecelia. Her con­tem­pla­tions are inter­rupt­ed by a knock at the door, fear­ing Andy’s return, but instead, she finds Enzo, a man who has appar­ent­ly been aid­ing her escape.

Enzo’s arrival sparks a sur­pris­ing turn of events. The acknowl­edg­ment of Nina’s free­dom from Andy leads to a pas­sion­ate encounter between her and Enzo, high­light­ing a redis­cov­ery of desire and emo­tion she believed was long dead inside her. This moment with Enzo, marked by mutu­al con­sent and shared effort, con­trasts sharply with her expe­ri­ences with Andy. The inter­ac­tion with Enzo sig­ni­fies not just a phys­i­cal con­nec­tion but an emo­tion­al awak­en­ing for Nina, who had spent years in sur­vival mode, devoid of gen­uine affec­tion.

The after­math of their inti­mate encounter leaves Nina con­tem­plat­ing her feel­ings for Enzo, who con­fess­es his affec­tion for her was imme­di­ate upon their first meet­ing. How­ev­er, the real­i­ty of Nina’s plans to leave town casts a shad­ow over the new­found con­nec­tion. Despite their evi­dent feel­ings, Nina is deter­mined not to let her rela­tion­ship with Enzo deter her from her plans to start anew, empha­siz­ing her need to be alone after years of abuse and con­trol. The chap­ter clos­es on an ambigu­ous note, leav­ing Nina’s path for­ward and the poten­tial for a future with Enzo uncer­tain.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER
50
I slept beside him, offer­ing what warmth I could, mon­i­tor­ing the cave
entrance the entire­ty of the night. The beasts in the for­est prowled past in an
end­less parade, and only in the gray light before dawn did their snarls and
hiss­ing fade.
Rhys was uncon­scious as watery sun­light paint­ed the stone walls, his
skin clam­my. I checked his wounds and found them bare­ly healed, an oily
sheen ooz­ing from them.
And when I put a hand on his brow, I swore at the heat.
Poi­son had coat­ed those arrows. And that poi­son remained in his body.
The Illyr­i­an camp was so dis­tant that my own pow­ers, fee­ble from the
night before, wouldn’t get us far.
But if they had those hor­ri­ble chains to nul­li­fy his pow­ers, had ash
arrows to bring him down, then that poi­son …
An hour passed. He didn’t get bet­ter. No, his gold­en skin was pale—
pal­ing. His breaths were shal­low. “Rhys,” I said soft­ly.
He didn’t move. I tried shak­ing him. If he could tell me what the poi­son
was, maybe I could try to find some­thing to help him … He did not awak­en.
Around mid­day, pan­ic gripped me in a tight fist.
I didn’t know any­thing about poi­sons or reme­dies. And out here, so far
from any­one … Would Cass­ian track us down in time? Would Mor win­now
in? I tried to rouse Rhys over and over.
The poi­son had dragged him down deep. I would not risk wait­ing for
help to arrive.
I would not risk him.
So I bun­dled him in as many lay­ers as I could spare, yet took my cloak,
kissed his brow, and left.
We were only a few hun­dred yards from where I’d been hunt­ing the night
before, and as I emerged from the cave, I tried not to look at the tracks of
the beasts who had passed through, right above us. Enor­mous, hor­ri­ble
tracks.
What I was to hunt would be worse.
We were already near run­ning water—so I made my trap close by,
build­ing my snare with hands that I refused to let shake.
I placed the cloak—mostly new, rich, lovely—in the cen­ter of my snare.
And I wait­ed.
An hour. Two.
I was about to start bar­gain­ing with the Caul­dron, with the Moth­er, when
a creep­ing, famil­iar silence fell over the wood.
Rip­pling toward me, the birds stopped chirp­ing, the wind stopped sigh­ing
in the pines.
And when a crack sound­ed through the for­est, fol­lowed by a screech that
hol­lowed out my ears, I nocked an arrow into my bow and set off to see the
Suriel.
It was as hor­rif­ic as I remem­bered:
Tat­tered robes bare­ly con­ceal­ing a body made of not skin, but what
looked to be sol­id, worn bone. Its lip­less mouth held too-large teeth, and its
fingers—long, spindly—clicked against each oth­er while it weighed the
fine cloak I’d laid in the cen­ter of my snare, as if the cloth had been blown
in on a wind.
“Feyre Curse­break­er,” it said, turn­ing toward me, in a voice that was both
one and many.
I low­ered my bow. “I have need of you.”
Time—I was run­ning out of time. I could feel it, that urgency beg­ging me
to hur­ry through the bond.
“What fas­ci­nat­ing changes a year has wrought on you—on the world,” it
said.
A year. Yes, it had been over a year now since I’d first crossed the wall.
“I have ques­tions,” I said.
It smiled, each of those stained, too-large brown teeth vis­i­ble. “You have
two ques­tions.”
An answer and an order.
I didn’t waste time; not with Rhys, not when this wood might be full of
ene­mies hunt­ing for us.
“What poi­son was used on those arrows?”
“Blood­bane,” it said.
I didn’t know that poison—had nev­er heard of it.
“Where do I find the cure?”
The Suriel clicked its bone fin­gers against each oth­er, as if the answer lay
inside the sound. “In the for­est.”
I hissed, my brows flat­ten­ing. “Please—please don’t be cryp­tic. What is
the cure?”
The Suriel cocked its head, the bone gleam­ing in the light. “Your blood.
Give him your blood, Curse­break­er. It is rich with the heal­ing gift of the
High Lord of the Dawn. It shall spare him from the bloodbane’s wrath.”
“That’s it?” I pushed. “How much blood?”
“A few mouth­fuls will do.” A hol­low, dry wind—not at all like the misty,
cold veils that usu­al­ly drift­ed past—brushed my face. “I helped you before.
I have helped you now. And you will free me before I lose my patience,
Curse­break­er.”
Some pri­mal, lin­ger­ing human part of me trem­bled as I took in the snare
around its legs, pin­ning it to the ground. Per­haps this time, the Suriel had let
itself be caught. And knew how to free itself—had learned it the moment
I’d spared it from the naga.
A test—of hon­or. And a favor. For the arrow I’d shot to save it last year.
But I nocked an ash arrow into my bow, cring­ing at the sheen of poi­son
coat­ing it. “Thank you for your help,” I said, brac­ing myself for flight
should it charge at me.
The Suriel’s stained teeth clacked against each oth­er. “If you wish to
speed your mate’s heal­ing, in addi­tion to your blood, a pink-flow­ered weed
sprouts by the riv­er. Make him chew it.”
I fired my arrow at the snare before I fin­ished hear­ing its words.
The trap sprang free. And the word clicked through me.
Mate.
“What did you say?”
The Suriel rose to its full height, tow­er­ing over me even from across the
clear­ing. I had not real­ized that despite the bone, it was mus­cled—
pow­er­ful.
“If you wish to … ” The Suriel paused, and grinned, show­ing near­ly all
of those brown, thick teeth. “You did not know, then.”
“Say it,” I grit­ted out.
“The High Lord of the Night Court is your mate.”
I wasn’t entire­ly sure I was breath­ing.
“Inter­est­ing,” the Suriel said.
Mate.
Mate.
Mate.
Rhysand was my mate.
Not lover, not hus­band, but more than that. A bond so deep, so
per­ma­nent that it was hon­ored over all oth­ers. Rare, cher­ished.
Not Tamlin’s mate.
Rhysand’s.
I was jeal­ous, and pissed off …
You’re mine.
The words slipped out of me, low and twist­ed, “Does he know?”
The Suriel clenched the robes of its new cloak in its bone-fin­gers. “Yes.”
“For a long while?”
“Yes. Since—”
“No. He can tell me—I want to hear it from his lips.”
The Suriel cocked its head. “You are—you are feel­ing too much, too fast.
I can­not read it.”
“How can I pos­si­bly be his mate?” Mates were equals—matched, at least
in some ways.
“He is the most pow­er­ful High Lord to ever walk this earth. You are …
new. You are made of all sev­en High Lords. Unlike any­thing. Are you two
not sim­i­lar in that? Are you not matched?”
Mate. And he knew—he’d known.
I glanced toward the riv­er, as if I could see all the way to the cave, to
where Rhysand slept.
When I looked back at the Suriel, it was gone.
I found the pink weed, and ripped it out of the ground as I stalked back to
the cave.
Mer­ci­ful­ly, Rhys was half-awake, the lay­ers I’d thrown on him now
scat­tered across the blan­ket, and he gave me a strained smile as I entered.
I chucked the weed at him, show­er­ing his bare chest with soil. “Chew on
that.”
He blinked bleari­ly at me.
Mate.
But he obeyed, frown­ing at the plant before he plucked off a few leaves
and start­ed chew­ing. He gri­maced as he swal­lowed. I tore off my jack­et,
shoved up my sleeve, and strode to him. He’d known, and kept it from me.
Had the oth­ers known? Had they guessed?
He’d—he’d promised not to lie, not to keep things from me.
And this—this most impor­tant thing in my immor­tal exis­tence …
I drew a dag­ger across my fore­arm, the cut long and deep, and dropped to
my knees before him. I didn’t feel the pain. “Drink this. Now.”
Rhys blinked again, brows rais­ing, but I didn’t give him the chance to
object before I gripped the back of his head, lift­ed my arm to his mouth, and
shoved him against my skin.
He paused as my blood touched his lips. Then his mouth opened wider,
his tongue brush­ing my arm as he sucked in my blood. One mouth­ful. Two.
Three.
I yanked back my arm, the wound already heal­ing, and shoved down my
sleeve.
“You don’t get to ask ques­tions,” I said, and he looked up at me,
exhaus­tion and pain lin­ing his face, my blood shin­ing on his lips. Part of me
hat­ed the words, for act­ing like this while he was wound­ed, but I didn’t
care. “You only get to answer them. And noth­ing more.”
Wari­ness flood­ed his eyes, but he nod­ded, bit­ing off anoth­er mouth­ful of
the weed and chew­ing.
I stared down at him, the half-Illyr­i­an war­rior who was my soul-bond­ed
part­ner.
“How long have you known that I’m your mate?”
Rhys stilled. The entire world stilled.
He swal­lowed. “Feyre.”
“How long have you known that I’m your mate?”
“You … You ensnared the Suriel?” How he’d pieced it togeth­er, I didn’t
give a shit.
“I said you don’t get to ask ques­tions.”
I thought some­thing like pan­ic might have flashed over his fea­tures. He
chewed again on the plant—as if it instant­ly helped, as if he knew that he
want­ed to be at his full strength to face this, face me. Col­or was already
bloom­ing on his cheeks, per­haps from what­ev­er heal­ing was in my blood.
“I sus­pect­ed for a while,” Rhys said, swal­low­ing once more. “I knew for
cer­tain when Ama­ran­tha was killing you. And when we stood on the
bal­cony Under the Mountain—right after we were freed, I felt it snap into
place between us. I think when you were Made, it … it height­ened the smell
of the bond. I looked at you then and the strength of it hit me like a blow.”
He’d gone wide-eyed, had stum­bled back as if shocked—terrified. And
had van­ished.
That had been over half a year ago.
My blood pound­ed in my ears. “When were you going to tell me?”
“Feyre.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“I don’t know. I want­ed to yes­ter­day. Or when­ev­er you’d noticed that it
wasn’t just a bar­gain between us. I hoped you might real­ize when I took
you to bed, and—”
“Do the oth­ers know?”
“Amren and Mor do. Azriel and Cass­ian sus­pect.”
My face burned. They knew—they— “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were in love with him; you were going to mar­ry him. And then you
… you were endur­ing every­thing and it didn’t feel right to tell you.”
“I deserved to know.”
“The oth­er night you told me you want­ed a dis­trac­tion, you want­ed fun.
Not a mat­ing bond. And not to some­one like me—a mess.” So the words
I’d spat after the Court of Night­mares had haunt­ed him.
“You promised—you promised no secrets, no games. You promised.”
Some­thing in my chest was cav­ing in on itself. Some part of me I’d
thought long gone.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

W E SHOULD STOP THERE,” EVELYN says.
She’s right. It is get­ting late, and I sus­pect I have a num­ber of
missed calls and e‑mails to return, includ­ing what I know will be a
voice mail from David.
“OK,” I say, clos­ing my note­book and press­ing stop on the
record­ing.
Eve­lyn gath­ers some of the papers and stale cof­fee mugs that have
accu­mu­lat­ed over the day.
I check my phone. Two missed calls from David. One from Frankie.
One from my moth­er.
I say good-bye to Eve­lyn and make my way onto the street.
The air is warmer than I antic­i­pat­ed, so I take off my coat. I pull my
phone out of my pock­et. I lis­ten to my mother’s voice mail first.
Because I’m not sure I’m ready to know what David has to say. I don’t
know what I want him to say, and thus, I don’t know what will
dis­ap­point me when he doesn’t say it.
“Hi, hon­ey,” my mom says. “I’m just call­ing to remind you that I’ll
be there soon! My flight gets in Fri­day evening. And I know you’re
going to insist on meet­ing me at the air­port because of that time I got
lost on the sub­way, but don’t wor­ry about it. Real­ly. I can fig­ure out
how to get to my daughter’s apart­ment from JFK. Or LaGuardia. Oh,
God, you don’t think I acci­den­tal­ly booked the flight to Newark, do
you? No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t have. Any­way, I’m so excit­ed to see you,
my lit­tle dumpling baby. I love you.”
I’m already laugh­ing before the mes­sage is over. My moth­er has
got­ten lost in New York a num­ber of times, not just once. And it’s
always because she refus­es to take a cab. She insists that she can
nav­i­gate pub­lic trans­porta­tion, even though she was born and raised in
Los Ange­les and there­fore has no real sense of how any two modes of
trans­porta­tion inter­sect.
Also, I have always hat­ed it when she called me her dumpling baby.
Most­ly because we both know it’s a ref­er­ence to how fat I was as a
child; I looked like an over­stuffed dumpling.
By the time her mes­sage is over and I’m done tex­ting her back (So
excit­ed to see you! Will meet you at the air­port. Just tell me which one),
I’m at the sub­way sta­tion.
I could eas­i­ly make the argu­ment to myself that I should lis­ten to
David’s voice mail when I get to Brook­lyn. And I almost do. I very
near­ly do. But instead, I stand out­side the stair­well and hit play.
“Hey,” he says, his grav­el­ly voice so famil­iar. “I texted you. But I
didn’t hear back. I . . . I’m in New York. I’m home. I mean, I’m here at
the apart­ment. Our apart­ment. Or .  .  . your apart­ment. What­ev­er. I’m
here. Wait­ing for you. I know it’s short notice. But don’t you think we
should talk about things? Don’t you think there’s more to say? I’m just
ram­bling now, so I’m going to go. But hope­ful­ly I’ll see you soon.”
When the mes­sage is over, I run down the stairs, swipe my card,
and slip onto the train just as it’s leav­ing. I pack myself into the
crowd­ed car and try to calm down as we roar through each stop.
What the hell is he doing home?
I get off the train and make my way to the street. I put my coat on
when I hit the fresh air. Brook­lyn feels cold­er than Man­hat­tan tonight.
I try not to run to my apart­ment. I try to remain calm, to remain
com­posed. There is no need for you to rush, I tell myself. Besides, I
don’t want to show up out of breath, and I real­ly don’t want to ruin my
hair.
I head through the front entrance and up the stairs to my
apart­ment.
I slip my key into my door.
And there he is.
David.
In my kitchen, clean­ing dish­es as if he lives here.
“Hi,” I say, star­ing at him.
He looks exact­ly the same. Blue eyes, thick lash­es, cropped hair. He
is wear­ing a maroon heathered T‑shirt and dark gray jeans.
When I met him, as we fell in love, I remem­ber think­ing that the
fact that he was white made things eas­i­er because I knew he would
nev­er tell me I wasn’t black enough. I think of Eve­lyn the first time she
heard her maid speak­ing Span­ish.
I remem­ber think­ing that the fact that he wasn’t that well read
meant he would nev­er think I was a bad writer. I think of Celia telling
Eve­lyn she wasn’t a good actress.
I remem­ber think­ing that the fact that I was clear­ly the more
attrac­tive one made me feel bet­ter, because I thought that meant he’d
nev­er leave. I think of how Don treat­ed Eve­lyn despite her being,
arguably, the most beau­ti­ful woman in the world.
Eve­lyn rose to those chal­lenges.
But look­ing at David right now, I can see that I have hid­den from
them.
Per­haps my entire life.
“Hi,” he says.
I can’t help but vom­it the words out of my mouth. I do not have the
time or ener­gy or restraint to curate them well or deliv­er them mild­ly.
“What are you doing here?” I say.
David puts the bowl in his hand into the cup­board and then turns
back to me. “I came back to iron out a few things,” he says.
“And I am some­thing to iron out?” I ask.
I put my bag down in the cor­ner. I kick off my shoes.
“You’re some­thing I need to set right,” he says. “I made a mis­take. I
think we both did.”
Why, until this moment, did I not real­ize that the issue is my own
con­fi­dence? That the root of most of my prob­lems is that I need to be
secure enough in who I am to tell any­one who doesn’t like it to go fuck
them­selves? Why have I spent so long set­tling for less when I know
damn well the world expects more?
“I didn’t make a mis­take,” I say. And it sur­pris­es me just as much as,
if not more than, it sur­pris­es him.
“Monique, we were both act­ing rash. I was upset that you wouldn’t
move to San Fran­cis­co. Because I felt like I had earned the right to ask
you to sac­ri­fice for me, for my career.”
I start for­mu­lat­ing a response, but David keeps talk­ing.
“And you were upset that I would ask that of you in the first place,
because I know how impor­tant your life is here. But  .  .  . there are
oth­er ways to han­dle this. We can do long-dis­tance for a lit­tle while.
And even­tu­al­ly I can move back here, or you can move to San
Fran­cis­co down the line. We have options. That’s all I’m say­ing. We
don’t have to get a divorce. We don’t have to give up on this.”
I sit down on the couch, fid­dling with my hands as I think. Now that
he says it, I real­ize what has made me so sad these past few weeks,
what has plagued me and made me feel so ter­ri­ble about myself.
It isn’t rejec­tion.
And it isn’t heart­break.
It is defeat.
I wasn’t heart­bro­ken when Don left me. I sim­ply felt like my mar­riage
had failed. And those are very dif­fer­ent things.
Eve­lyn said that just last week.
And now I under­stand why it got under my skin.
I have been reel­ing because I failed. Because I picked the wrong
guy for me. Because I entered the wrong mar­riage. Because the truth
is that at the age of thir­ty-five, I have yet to love some­one enough to
sac­ri­fice for them. I’ve yet to open my heart enough to let some­one in
that much.
Some mar­riages aren’t real­ly that great. Some loves aren’t all-
encom­pass­ing. Some­times you sep­a­rate because you weren’t that good
togeth­er to begin with.
Some­times divorce isn’t an earth-shat­ter­ing loss. Some­times it’s just
two peo­ple wak­ing up out of a fog.
“I don’t think .  .  . I think you should go home to San Fran­cis­co,” I
say to him final­ly.
David comes and joins me on the couch.
“And I think I should stay here,” I say. “And I don’t think a long-
dis­tance mar­riage is the right play. I think  .  .  . I think divorce is the
right play.”
“Monique . . .”
“I’m sor­ry,” I say as he takes my hand. “I wish I didn’t feel that way.
But I sus­pect, deep down, you think it, too. Because you didn’t come
here and tell me how much you miss me. Or how hard it has been to
live with­out me. You said you didn’t want to give up. And look, I don’t
want to give up, either. I don’t want to fail at this. But that’s not actu­al­ly
a great rea­son to stay togeth­er. We should have rea­sons why we don’t
want to give up. It shouldn’t just be that we don’t want to give up. And I
don’t  .  .  . I don’t have any.” I’m unsure how to say what I want to say
gen­tly. So I just say it. “You have nev­er felt like my oth­er half.”
It is only once David gets up off the sofa that I real­ize I assumed we
would be sit­ting here talk­ing for a long time. And it is only once he
puts on his jack­et that I real­ize he prob­a­bly assumed he would sleep
here tonight.
But once he has his hand on the door­knob, I real­ize that I have put
into motion the end of a lack­lus­ter life in the inter­est of even­tu­al­ly
find­ing a great one.
“I hope one day you find some­one who feels like the oth­er half of
you, I guess,” David says.
Like Celia.
“Thank you,” I say. “I hope you find it, too.”
David smiles in a way that is more of a frown. And then he leaves.
When you end a mar­riage, you’re sup­posed to lose sleep over it,
aren’t you?
But I don’t. I sleep free.
  *  *  *  
I GET A call from Frankie the next morn­ing just as I’m sit­ting down at
Evelyn’s. I con­sid­er putting it through to voice mail, but there’s already
too much swirling around in my brain. To add Call back Frankie might
just put me over the edge. Bet­ter to han­dle it now. Have it behind me.
“Hi, Frankie,” I say.
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is light, almost cheer­ful. “So we need to
sched­ule the pho­tog­ra­phers. I assume Eve­lyn will want them to come
to her there at the apart­ment?”
“Oh, that’s a good ques­tion,” I say. “One sec­ond.” I mute my phone
and turn to Eve­lyn. “They are ask­ing when and where you’ll want to do
the pho­to shoot.”
“Here is fine,” Eve­lyn says. “Let’s aim for Fri­day.”

Chap­ter 50 of “The Ten­ant of Wild­fell Hall” by Anne Bron­të, titled “Doubts and Dis­ap­point­ments,” delves deeply into the mixed emo­tions of hope, despair, and anx­ious antic­i­pa­tion that Gilbert Markham expe­ri­ences con­cern­ing his love inter­est, Helen Hunt­ing­don. After Helen releas­es her­self from her bur­den­some mar­riage with Arthur Hunt­ing­don due to his death, Gilbert dwells on his prospects with her, oscil­lat­ing between hope for a future togeth­er and despair over the numer­ous obsta­cles that stand in their way. These include soci­etal per­cep­tions of their match, the pos­si­bil­i­ty of Helen’s will being restrict­ed against remar­riage, and Gilbert’s fear that Helen’s recent tri­als and rec­on­cil­i­a­tion with her dying hus­band might have extin­guished her affec­tion for him.

The chap­ter also sheds light on the state of oth­er char­ac­ters inter­twined in Gilbert and Helen’s sto­ry. The unfor­tu­nate descent of Lady Low­bor­ough into mis­ery and penury fol­low­ing her elope­ment and her hus­band, Lord Low­bor­ough’s sub­se­quent remar­riage to a woman of benev­o­lence and piety, under­scores themes of moral redemp­tion and the quest for gen­uine hap­pi­ness beyond soci­etal acco­lades and super­fi­cial plea­sures.

Through­out this peri­od of doubt and wait­ing, Gilbert remains in a state of lim­bo, unable to direct his love for Helen into actions that might secure their union, par­tial­ly due to his own pride and soci­etal con­straints. His inter­ac­tions with Fred­er­ick Lawrence, Helen’s broth­er, reflect the com­plex­i­ties of their friend­ship and the unspo­ken ten­sions aris­ing from Gilbert’s feel­ings for Helen. Gilbert’s frus­tra­tions are com­pound­ed by Lawrence’s reserved demeanor and reluc­tance to dis­cuss Helen, which Gilbert inter­prets as dis­ap­proval of his suit.

As the nar­ra­tive unfolds, Gilbert’s antic­i­pa­tion builds towards mak­ing a deci­sive move once the prop­er peri­od of mourn­ing and wait­ing con­cludes, mark­ing his resolve to face the chal­lenges that lie ahead in pur­suit of his love for Helen. The descrip­tion of his inner tur­moil, along­side the explo­ration of themes such as soci­etal expec­ta­tions, per­son­al redemp­tion, and the endur­ing nature of true affec­tion, ren­ders this chap­ter a poignant reflec­tion on the endur­ing quest for love amidst adver­si­ty.