Preview chapters of "Seen At Last"

"Grace?"

That familiar voice slammed her chest. Grace's hand went to her hair—flattened, humidity-wrecked. The coffee stain across her sleeve caught the light.

Grace turned. Allie Morgan—sweat-glossed, breathing hard—stood four feet away at the Whole Foods salad bar. A damp white tank clung to her torso; overhead lights glazed her collarbones like an artist had highlighted them.

This wasn't work-version Allie. This was—

Her pulse kicked hard. Kids whined for popsicles, a couple argued over the best marinade. Labor Day weekend bodies rolling carts in loose, noisy currents.

Her reflection flashed in the cooler's glass—rumpled, stained, wilted. Next to Allie's post-run glow, she looked like the "before" photo in a makeover show. Holy shit.

"Allie. Hi.”  She dragged a hand through her hair, achieving nothing.  “You’re … shopping?”

“Cooling down after a run. Needed something besides another protein bar.”  Allie twisted the cap off her water bottle and tipped her head back, throat long and elegant as she drank. She rolled her shoulders. The damp cotton shifted. A bead of sweat traced down her neck, disappeared beneath the tank. Grace’s scalp prickled. She looked away. Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.

“Jesus, Allie, you make forty look ridiculous. … Meanwhile—” She gestured vaguely at herself. “—I look like I’ve been dragged behind a bus, more disheveled with each errand.”

Allie laughed. “Let me guess. Soccer gear for Mia? School supplies for Matthew?”

“How’d you know?”

Allie’s smile turned wry. “Because that’s what moms do on Labor Day weekend while dads have tee times.”

“Well, you nailed it. I still have to face the Target gauntlet."  She peered into her empty cart. “And honestly? I can’t even remember why I came in here.” Allie stepped close enough that Grace caught the faint salt-sweet scent of sweat drying on warm skin. 

“The groceries will still be here tomorrow,” Allie said. “Come walk Fresh Pond with me instead. You look like you need air.”

Her phone buzzed again. Through her pocket, she felt it—two long vibrations. A call, not a text. Michael.

“Okay.” The word surprised her.

She abandoned her cart by the avocados. Outside, the sunlight made her squint. Wind lifted the hair at her neck. Gravel crunched beneath their shoes. Each step came easier than the last.

“Gracie—” 

It always surprised her. Not so much the nickname itself, though Allie was the only one who ever called her that. But the way her own name sounded when Allie said it.

Grace looked over. Sunlight threaded through Allie’s brown hair; a fine sheen of sweat glistened along her shoulders. Grace’s mouth went dry.

“You look exhausted, Gracie. When's the last time you did something just because you wanted to?" She nudged her with her elbow. “Tell me this: if you could hit pause on everything for a week, what would you do? No work, no family, nothing on the list. Just you.”

“Oh god.” Grace let out a short laugh. “I don’t even know who I am without all that. I’d probably spend the first few days screaming into the void.”

Allie snorted.

Grace laughed, then had to swallow hard. 

They followed the path as it curved toward the water, reeds swaying along the edge. The air smelled like warm mud and algae. Sweat dampened Grace’s lower back. A child’s shriek came from the playground in the distance. 

“Why do you ask?”

“Just thinking about all you carry,” Allie said. “How heavy it must get.”

Grace threw her a quick glance, trying to read her. 

“Yeah, well … everybody’s got their crap,” Grace said lightly. “Mine’s not the worst. And you’ve got plenty on your plate too. Divorced mom of two isn’t exactly easy.” 

“Most of the time, it’s fine, if you want to know the truth.”

Grace hesitated. “Can I ask you something?” 

Allie nodded. “Always.”

“Do you ever … miss it?” Grace kept her eyes on the gravel. “Being married. Do you ever wish you still were?”  

Allie took a long breath, letting it out slowly. “Not the marriage, but—” 

Grace's phone buzzed again. She pulled it out: Michael's name on the screen, a text preview: Where are you? Matthew needs— She slipped the phone back in her pocket. 'You were saying?' 

“Sometimes I miss the inside jokes, all the shorthand stuff that comes with living alongside someone for years. Yeah. Sometimes I miss that.” Sunlight caught the curve of her cheek, the curls damp at her temples. Grace’s gaze lingered before she snapped it back to the path.

Allie's arm swung close enough that Grace felt the heat of her skin.

“I have to admit, Allie, I envy you. You get little pockets of time to be yourself.  Not mother, not therapist. Just you. I can’t remember the last time I had that.” 

Geese bullied the shoreline like they owned it, hissing at a toddler with a juice box. The path turned and narrowed behind a cluster of birch trees. Sunlight dappled everything. Allie slowed, turned. Her fingers hooked Grace’s—a gentle squeeze. Grace’s breath snagged. The warmth traveled up her arm. A jogger passed them, close enough that Grace heard his breathing, saw him glance at their hands. She didn't pull away. When he was gone, Allie's thumb brushed across her knuckles once, then released.

As they resumed walking, the conversation drifted to easier things: what time Allie’s ex was dropping the kids tomorrow, the to-die-for cranberry-orange scone at Darwin's. 

Their knuckles brushed from time to time. Grace didn’t know if she’d moved closer, or if Allie had. 

The parking lot appeared before she wanted—sun glaring off windshields. She slowed, unwilling to let the moment dissolve into the banality of asphalt and errands.

Allie touched her arm lightly, her fingers warm through cotton. “The milk and eggs can wait,” she said, mouth quirking. “Take the whole afternoon off.”

Grace was lighter than she’d been all week. “Maybe,” she said. “This was … exactly what I needed. You’re a great friend. Thanks, kiddo.”

Something shifted in Allie’s eyes. “I’m glad." Allie waved as she headed toward her car. "Love ya!" Allie called out, but she'd stopped walking. Turned to face Grace fully. 'I mean it, Gracie. I'm glad we did this.'

Grace's throat tightened. Allie had turned to face her when she said it, held her gaze. Something in her tone—certain, knowing—made Grace's pulse spike.

“Me too,' Grace managed.

Allie held her gaze for one beat longer than necessary, then smiled and turned away.

Grace reached the crosswalk and stepped off the curb. Dry cleaner. Dinner. The endless loop.

“Grace!'

Footsteps approached quickly. A hand grabbed her forearm, tugging her back to the sidewalk. Allie. Cheeks flushed, breath quick and warm.

A car horn blared. Grace's head snapped toward the street—a sedan, braking hard, the driver's face twisted in anger.

'Jesus.' Allie's grip tightened. 'You walked right out.'

Adrenaline surged through her. She'd been so lost in thought she'd nearly—

'Sorry. I wasn't paying attention.'

'You okay?' Allie's hand was still on her arm, thumb pressed against her pulse point. Could she feel how hard Grace's heart was racing?

'Yeah. I'm—' Grace's eyes dropped to Allie's hand, then lifted.. Their faces were inches apart. 'Thank you.'

Allie didn't let go. 'I almost forgot—I have season tickets to Speakeasy Stage.  Opening show is Friday, the 15th. My plus-one bailed. Are you free?”

Friday nights for Grace had meant collapsing on the couch with a novel. Quiet. Predictable. Conventional. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone out simply because she wanted to.

Allie’s eyes waited, open and sure. What could Allie be thinking, inviting Grace? Surely there were plenty of her gay friends she could invite. And yet, here she was—sun-flushed, breathless, impossibly attractive—looking at her like spending an evening together was something she genuinely wanted. 

She wanted to be looked at like that. Not as wife, not as mother. As herself.

Her phone started buzzing in her back pocket. She reached back, silenced it without looking.

“I’d actually love that,” she said.

“Good.” Allie smiled, one corner of her mouth lifting higher than the other. “It’s a date.”

The words hit her like cold water. She managed a smile, a goodbye. 

Her phone rang. Michael's name lit the screen.

Allie glanced at it, then back at Grace. "You should get that."

"Yeah." Grace stared at the phone. Four missed calls. Three texts. "I should."

She answered. "Hey—"

"Where the hell are you? I've been calling for an hour. Matthew's coach changed practice to today and I'm in the middle of—"

Grace watched Allie walk toward her car. "I'm at Whole Foods. I'll be home in twenty minutes."

"Whole Foods? For an hour?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. "They were out of the organic chicken. I had to wait."

The lie landed easily. Too easily.

She made it to her car. The leather was hot against her thighs. Her fingers trembled against the steering wheel. When had that started?

In two weeks, she'd sit beside Allie in the dark. Then she’d drive home to Michael and act like nothing had shifted.

She gripped the wheel and tried to steady her breathing, but her ribs felt too small. The phone sat on the passenger seat—four missed calls, six texts now. 

She'd have to explain. Figure out what to say. She'd tell Michael she was going out Friday. With a friend from work. The lie was already smoothing itself into something plausible: Just Allie. She had an extra ticket."

She started the car. Her wedding ring caught the light.

She had a date.

Tuesday, September 5, 2023

The copier groaned, each page sliding out reluctant. The air conditioner rattled and wheezed, losing its fight against the heavy, wet heat that seeped into everything. Outside the tall windows, the sky over Cambridge had slipped into darkness. 

Most of the other therapists had cleared out a couple hours ago.  Grace could be home by now too, finishing notes on the couch while Michael queued up another video about a new surgical technique or, if he was relaxing, a gory documentary about medieval surgery. 

Instead, she lingered in the stifling copy room, pretending this small task mattered. The truth was simple. Hard. She didn't want to go home to Michael's indifferent questions, his nightly inventory of their life: We’re out of blueberries.  Did you call about Matthew's physical? His perfunctory kisses to her forehead that had become reflexive motions detached from feeling.

There was another truth, too. She liked the building at this hour: the hush in the hallways, the relentless chug of the old AC, the way the light took on a softer, warmer cast. 

Mostly, she liked crossing paths with Allie at this time of night, when their interactions were unhurried, free of waiting-room noise or client schedules pressing in.

Whenever she got to see Allie—even in passing—the ground under her feet felt less slippery.  Allie’s presence had a way of shifting her into herself, as if someone had sharpened the focus. She felt seen, in a way Grace didn’t fully understand and definitely didn’t like to examine.

Ten days until the theater. She’d been counting without meaning to. Just as she thought of Allie throughout the day, even during her sessions. It didn’t mean anything other than that Allie was easy to talk to. A collegial bright spot in a long day. Nothing more.

Still...

Footsteps in the hall. Then a familiar voice drawled from the doorway. “You’re stalling.” 

Grace looked up. Allie leaned against the doorframe, barefoot, holding two sweating glasses of iced chamomile, her signature summer drink. The humidity had frizzed her chestnut hair at the temples, giving her a slightly wild, human edge Grace found unreasonably charming.

“Sorry—what?” 

“I heard you back here abusing the copier. Thought you might need reinforcement,” she said, handing her a glass. “Everyone else left ages ago, Gracie. And here you are, acting like you need extra copies of that form tonight." A knowing look crossed her face. "When really, you're avoiding going home." 

Cold cut through the glass as Grace took it from her. “Bold move—psychoanalyzing another therapist.” 

“I save it for special cases,” Allie said, mouth curving. “Like colleagues who glare at office equipment after hours.” She pushed off the doorframe and hopped up onto the counter, bare heels kicking lightly against the cabinet.

Grace lifted a brow. “Pot, meet kettle. Who’s wandering around the building barefoot at 7:45?”

“Touché.”

Grace startled herself with her own laugh. 

“Rough day?" Allie asked.

The copier exhaled its last page. Grace squared the stack. "Had this couple today. Six months in, still grinding the same rut. He cheated, she can't forgive, both of them waiting for me to magic them back to happy."

"And you gave them tools."

"Active listening. Empathy exercises. They nod, repeat the phrases. But when they leave—"

“They look empty," Allie supplied.

"Exactly." She sipped the chamomile—honey-sweet, faintly bitter at the edges.

“Sometimes people just need someone to say, ‘Yes, this hurts. Of course it hurts. You’re allowed to feel it.’”

Grace straightened, a reflexive line of protest forming. “Maybe so, but if I don’t give them something to do, they look at me like I robbed them of their copay.”

Allie’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Yeah. But sometimes the most therapeutic thing is just seeing someone.” 

This was their familiar rhythm—volleying ideas back and forth over lunch or coffee breaks, gentle sparring over theory until both of them were smiling.

Lately, though, that rhythm came with an extra pull. Her gaze slid to the hollow at the base of Allie’s throat, the tendons in her wrist as she lifted the glass. She made herself look away.

Allie leaned forward a fraction, voice lowering. “Maybe they just want someone who actually sees them. Not what they do or provide, but who they are." A beat. "Don't we all want that? To be noticed?” 

“Yeah.” The word came out too quickly, edging on hungry. She cleared her throat. “I mean. That’s probably what keeps therapists’ appointment books full.” 

“Speaking of.” Allie slid down from the counter, bare feet landing with a soft thud. She smoothed the front of her blouse where it had bunched. “Have you met Travis yet? The new guy taking over Sarah’s office?”

Grace shook her head. “No, but Leo gave me a heads-up. Apparently he does chakra alignment and crystal healing. Total quack.”

Allie laughed. “Jesus. You guys don’t even pretend to be tolerant."

“Why bother? You’d just call bullshit if we did.”

“Fair.” Her eyes crinkled. “If you’d braved the kitchen at lunch today, you could’ve met him yourself. Formed your own opinion. But you’d have had to sit through Claire’s TED Talk on building a ‘proper therapy practice.’  So honestly? You dodged a bullet.”

The air conditioner rattled again, a tired, metallic cough. Their shoulders were separated by less than a foot.

Allie was looking at her mouth. For just a second. Then her eyes cut away, color rising in her cheeks.

"I should head home," Grace said.

Her voice said it. Her feet stayed where they were.

“‘Should,’” Allie repeated, one eyebrow lifting. “That word usually means someone else wrote the rulebook.”

Grace looked down.

“You planning another long work night tomorrow?” Allie asked.

“What?”

“This whole staying-after-hours thing. You’re killing time before going home.” She gave a half-shrug.

Heat prickled up her neck. “That’s not— I mean—” The excuse died in her throat because what could she say? That these late-night encounters had become the best parts of her week?

"Three nights this week. Last Wednesday and Thursday, too." Allie's gaze held steady. She reached out and squeezed Grace’s forearm. 

Her breath seized. When had anyone last noticed her patterns? Her needs?"

Allie stepped back toward the doorway, giving her space. “Try not to work yourself into the ground, okay?” She rested a hand briefly on the doorframe. “See you tomorrow, Gracie.”

Her silhouette slipped into the dim hall, footsteps fading toward her office.

Grace stood a moment longer in the empty copy room, the glass sweating in her hand. She should leave. Right now. Before she did something stupid like knock on Allie's door.

She forced herself toward her office instead. She gathered her tote, her purse, a file she didn’t really need to bring home. She shut off the light and walked down the hallway, the old floorboards creaking under her weight.

Outside, the air felt even thicker than it had in the copy room. Dense, late-summer heat pressed low over the city. Her blouse clung to her back. She crossed the parking lot, unlocked her car, and sank into the driver’s seat.

Cambridge streets blurred into Belmont’s quieter ones as she drove. But her thoughts never left the building. Allie on the counter, bare feet swinging. The way she’d said, “I see you, Gracie.”

At a red light, her phone buzzed on the console. 

A text.

Michael.

Kids and I ate. Leftovers in fridge.

That was all. No You okay? No Drive safely. No anything.

Grace’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

Allie’s words floated back: “All any of us wants is to be noticed.”

For the first time in a long time, Grace wanted it so much it scared her. 

She drove the rest of the way home with the windows cracked, letting in the warm air, imagining what it might feel like to walk into a house where someone looked up when she entered. Where someone saw her.

Chapter 3

Grace sat motionless in the driveway, listening to the Honda’s engine tick itself quiet. Warm light filled the kitchen window. Above it, Mia’s bedroom window flashed the cold blue pulse of a phone screen. Almost inviting.

Her last session of the day clung to her like smoke. “I just need to understand why,” the wife had said, voice cracking. “Why hurt me, why risk our marriage and the kids … for her?”

Across the couch, the husband had stared into space. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Six months of therapy and they were still grinding the same rut.

Grace had offered them two questions: “How do you show appreciation for each other?” And  “Do you let yourselves want things? Ask for more?”  

She started to form her own answers to those questions when the porch light blinked off and on—a twelve-year-old boy’s insistent signal: get in here already.

She forced herself from the car. The air smelled of cut grass and charcoal. Her feet found the old paving stones she and Michael had laid during the first summer they owned the house, when sharing garden chores was still fun, like courtship. 

The hostas she'd planted three Mother's Days ago curled yellow at the edges. 

She’d barely set down her bag before Matthew barreled into the mudroom. 

“The lunch you made me was gross. And did you sign my permission slip?”

“Hello to you, too.” She ruffled his hair. She dug into her purse and pulled out the slip. She’d signed it that morning but forgotten to move it to his backpack in the chaos of getting everyone out the door. "Here. And next time, maybe say hello before you start with the complaints.”

Matthew squinted at her signature as if checking for forgery. "Sorry. Hi, Mom."

“Seventh grade busting your chops? Anything interesting today?” 

“We’re reviewing ratios. So stupid. We spent so long on them last year.”

“A little review won’t kill you.”  She kissed the top of his head, breathed in his boy-smell—shampoo and something like dirt. “If you have more homework, go finish it. I'll be in later to say goodnight."

“Okay." He padded back toward the living room, leaving the entryway strangely still.

Grace kicked off her shoes, and straightened them by the wall.  

In the kitchen, Michael jabbed impatiently at the dishwasher settings. The familiar scent of hospital disinfectant soap drifted from him as he latched the machine’s door and started it. 

He looked up. “Hey. … Did you remember the dry cleaning?" His shoulders slumped, jaw tight with fatigue. He looked old suddenly. Or maybe just tired.

She stooped to grab Matthew’s balled socks from the floor. “Forgot. Sorry. I’ll get it tomorrow.” Onto the mental list it went. She leaned on the counter. “Your day good?”

“Okay.”

She made herself ask, “What was the best part?” 

“Telling that idiot Hendricks the new technique he’s pushing is premature." He gestured at a surgical journal splayed on the counter beside her hand. "I need to get caught up on the literature.”  

He brushed behind her to grab the journal, fingertips touching her shoulder. Once that touch had meant something. 

Allie's hand on her forearm earlier that night had burned through cotton.

Grace stood still for a beat, the slight sensation of his touch fading.

He disappeared into the living room. The kitchen gleamed from their last renovation—quartz countertops, pendant lighting.  It was beautiful and orderly, like the rest of their home. 

She climbed the stairs, past the gallery wall of family photos with everybody smiling.

Music threaded from under Mia’s closed door. Grace knocked gently. After a pause: “Yeah?”

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

Another pause. “Yep.”

Grace pushed the door open. Mia lay stretched across rumpled sheets, one hand clutching her phone, the other absently twisting a strand of hair. Textbooks and loose papers created islands around her. The lamplight caught the new angles of Mia’s cheekbones, the way her T-shirt pulled differently than it had in June. Her eyes met Grace's for only a moment before sliding away.

“How’d your day go?” Grace sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the scattered homework.

“Fine.” Mia’s all-purpose answer.

“Anything surprising?”

Mia considered. “Chloe looks different this year.” She picked at a frayed seam in her comforter. 

“Yeah? Did she shorten her hair?”

“No, just looks … older.” Color rose in her cheeks. “She’s in Chem and English with me. We’ve been texting about homework and stuff.”

“That’s good. Always helps to have a friend in your classes.”

“Yeah …” Mia’s focus drifted, then zeroed in on Grace’s temple. She reached out, separating strands. “You have two—wait—no, three silver hairs.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Mm-hmm. My hair and I have been through some things. Be nice.”

Mia smirked, then retreat returned; her attention snapped back to her phone. “I should finish. The Chem teacher is trying to show she’s a hard-ass by giving us a quiz in week two.”

“Okay. I’m around.” No point adding, “If you want to talk.”  The door—literal and figurative—was already closing.

“I know. Thanks, Mom.” 

* * *

By the time Grace came to bed, Michael was propped against pillows, iPad leaning  against his raised knees. The white-blue glow lit his face in a way that made his features older, sharper.

He gave her a small, corridor-colleague sort of acknowledgment. “Why the late night?”

Grace gathered her pajamas. "Six-thirty appointment. Then some paperwork. Sorry."

“No need to apologize. Just that these late nights are starting to take a toll.” 

In the bathroom, she slipped into her pajamas, ran a washcloth over her face, and mechanically brushed her teeth. In the mirror, fine lines near her eyes, silver threading through auburn. Wife, mom, therapist. When had the roles consumed the person?

She slid under the covers and lay on her side, facing him. The iPad rose and fell with each cycle of Michael’s breathing.

“What a long day,” she said, trying to create an opening. 

“Mmh.” He didn’t look up from whatever article he was reading. “You okay?”

“I— yeah. I guess I wanted to talk a little. I miss us,” she said before she could swallow it back.

He gave a vague nod without looking up.

'I've just been feeling … off,' she added.

This time he looked up. “You should get your thyroid checked. Fatigue like that usually points to something hormonal.” His thumb scrolled. “I can send you Morrison's info.”

She waited for him to ask what she meant by off. By missing us.

He didn’t.

“I didn't mean medically."

He glanced up, already halfway back to the article. "What do you mean?"

She wanted to say: I mean I don't recognize my life. I mean I feel like I'm disappearing. Instead: "Forget it. Finish your reading."

"I should—it's a lot of data."

"I know."

Grace stared at the ceiling. For a moment, she'd thought she might reach him. But he'd already turned away. She turned to her other side and pulled the comforter up to her chin, swallowing back the ridiculous hope that had bloomed for half a second. 

A few minutes later, he set the iPad on his nightstand and turned out the light. The darkness dropped fast, swallowing everything. He rolled to his side, patted her hip once, and adjusted his pillow with the large exhale he always made before sleep. His back a solid wall.

Grace stared into the dark, the wife's voice from her afternoon session rising again: “Why won't you talk to me? Why do I have to drag every feeling out of you?”

After twenty minutes of the steady rhythm of his breathing, she slipped from bed and padded downstairs.

She poured a glass of wine and sat at the counter. The kitchen looked exactly as it should—keys in the blue bowl, basket of mail waiting, whiteboard calendar full of careful notes. 

“Do you let yourself want things?”

She went to the calendar and circled Friday the 15th in red.

Chapter 4

Thursday morning, Grace measured loose-leaf tea in the kitchen of the old blue Victorian. Eight days until she'd sit in a dark theater next to Allie. 

The therapy house had its own tired charm: sloping floors, chipped paint on windows, wiring that buzzed when you ran the kettle and toaster at the same time. Someone had converted it into therapists’ offices decades ago with good intentions and terrible execution. None of the walls were truly soundproof, so during work hours the place hummed with an orchestra of white-noise machines—each therapist’s defense against the building’s determination to broadcast everyone’s secrets.

The kettle rattled on its base; steam curled from the spout. Footsteps approached—brisk, confident, nothing like a client’s hesitant shuffle.

A man in his mid-thirties suddenly filled the doorway—tall, tan, a hemp blazer over a T-shirt that read YOUR LIMITING BELIEFS ARE BORING ME. His dark hair was pulled into a strategic man-bun. 

He thrust out his hand. “Travis Sinclair. Taking over Sarah Clarke’s old office.” His eyes swept over her. “You must be Grace Brennan. Nice to meet you.”

His handshake compressed her knuckles. Grace extracted her fingers with effort. “That’s me. Welcome to our little Victorian asylum.”

Claire Cummings materialized in the opposite doorframe, her iced coffee held like a shield between herself and Travis. Leo Kramer loomed a half step behind Claire, his expression neutral but watchful. 

"He’s still here, I see," Claire muttered over her shoulder to Leo, not bothering to lower her voice. “Apparently my lecture on proper therapeutic practice wasn’t deterrent enough,” she said.

Travis grinned back, unfazed. 

Leo inclined his head toward Travis. "The thermostat is communal property in theory only," he said."It has very specific settings that shouldn’t be fiddled with. Remember that, and we'll get along fine." At that, he turned to leave. 

Grace’s eyes followed his retreat down the hallway. She turned back to Travis, arranging her face into professionalism with a hint of warmth. 

“What's your focus, Travis?"

"Post-traumatic growth,” he said. “Helping people alchemize pain into strength.” He tapped his sternum. “Phoenix from the ashes."

Claire's mouth flattened. “Oh, good Lord,” she said, each syllable honed to a scalpel. She gave Grace a curt nod,  pivoted sharply, and marched  back to her office.

Grace offered Travis an apologetic smile. “Don’t mind her. Claire can be tough on people who have approaches different from her own.”

“Hey, it’s fine. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” Travis said, leaning against the counter. “Some therapists diagnose the wound; I focus on the healing. When people fall apart, they’re actually falling into something better.”

Grace’s smile froze at the corners. “The field certainly has room for different philosophies,” she said, voice as neutral as Switzerland. She lifted her mug as a toast.

He smiled. “Agreed.”

The door swung inward—and Allie stumbled through it. Hair loose, blouse untucked, skin under her eyes bruised-dark. “God, what a morning.”

“Excuse us, Travis,” Grace said.

Her hand found Allie’s elbow. "Come with me," she murmured. She guided Allie past Travis and out of the kitchen, not stopping until her office door clicked shut behind them.

Allie sagged against the wall, one hand bracing herself. Grace gently pushed hair away from her face. 

“What happened?” 

"Mark was supposed to have the kids until tonight,” Allie said, words tumbling fast. “Then at seven this morning he shows up, dumps them on my porch. ‘Work crisis. You can get them to school, right?'"

Grace frowned. “He didn’t call first?”

“Why bother? We all know wives exist for childcare emergencies. Even ex-ones, apparently.” Allie laughed once—short, brittle. “So I'm standing there in my ratty sleep shirt, trying to conjure breakfast, when Noah mentions he has a volcano project due today. And Emma's crying because she left her special new shirt at Mark's—on picture day." 

"Oh God, not picture day.” 

“Yeah.” Allie whooshed her hand over her head. "Completely off my radar since they were at Mark’s. Anyway, I threw together the volcano poster while texting apologies to my first client.”

“They made it to school sort of on time?” 

“Twenty minutes late.” Allie’s mouth twisted. “And that fucking school secretary at the front desk, lips all pursed, sliding those tardy slips across the counter with her perfectly manicured fingers, giving me that pitying ‘oh honey, you’re clearly the incompetent parent’ look.” 

"And Mark couldn't take them because ...?"

Allie made air quotes. "’Urgent merger' requiring his 'immediate attention.' Heaven forbid the world's most important financial analyst take his kids to school while I—who merely help people rebuild their lives—handle my schedule.”

Grace's eyebrows lifted. “Did you remind him you had clients?"

"I tried. But when Mark's work is on the line, his situational hearing loss kicks in.” Her fingers curled into a fist. “He actually patted my shoulder and said, ‘You’ll figure it out. You always do.’”

Grace ground her teeth. "God, what an a—” She stopped herself. "I'm sorry he did that."

Allie nodded. “Me, too. … You know, Mark’s fine most of the time. And the kids adore him. But sometimes …”  She trailed off, then paused, collecting her thoughts. “You know what kills me?” Allie’s voice wavered. “I rearranged my entire morning for him. And then on the way to school, Noah asks why I’m mad. ‘Because Dad’—” her voice sharpened into mock innocence “—‘doesn’t get mad about this stuff.’”

“Kids don’t see the whole picture.”

“I know that.” Allie scrubbed her eyes with her sleeve. “But at eight in the morning, when you’re patching together everyone else’s mess, rational thought is … limited.”

Grace stepped closer. Her fingers wrapped around Allie’s forearm. Warmth beneath the fabric. “You handled it. You did what needed doing.”

Allie exhaled, shoulders dropping. "I practically bit their heads off the entire drive to school. Some mother I am.”  Her eyes welled.

Grace held Allie’s gaze. "Hey. You didn't fall apart. You handled Mark's mess. That's not the same thing.” She stepped forward and opened her arms. 

Allie stepped into them slowly, then fully—face against Grace's neck, breath beginning to steady. Grace caught the scent of Allie's shampoo, something citrus and clean. The weight of her, the warmth—Grace's hands spread across her back. A minute passed. Two.  

Footsteps in the hallway—heavy, deliberate. Travis’s voice: “Grace, your nine-thirty is—”

Grace pulled back from the hug. She opened the door. Travis was right there. His eyes flicked from Grace to Allie, taking in Allie's disheveled state, the closed office door.

“Early,” Grace finished. “I’ll be right out.”

Travis’s expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. “Take your time.” He pulled the door closed.

Allie exhaled shakily. “That probably looked—”

“He knows you had a rough morning,” Grace said quickly. “That's all he saw.”

Allie glanced at the clock, smoothed her blouse. “I should make myself presentable. My ten o’clock will be here soon.” She huffed out a laugh. “Another straight woman begging me to save her marriage.”

Grace laughed with her.

"Take your time. And Allie?” Grace caught her arm gently, her fingers wrapping around Allie’s wrist. "Next time Mark pulls shit like this, don't rearrange your entire schedule to accommodate him. Let him figure out how to handle his emergency and his parenting responsibilities at the same time."

"Funny. That's exactly the advice I'd give a client in my situation." Allie managed a small smile, some light returning to her eyes. "Thanks for listening, Gracie. And for not telling me this is all part of my healing journey or whatever nonsense Travis would trot out."

Grace grinned. "He'd recommend 'sacred rage.' And in this case, I’d agree with him. Anger is the appropriate response."

Allie's fingers found Grace's, squeezed. When Allie let go, Grace’s hands lingered on her arms for a beat before releasing. 

Allie left, footsteps fading up the stairs.

Grace stood alone in her office, hands still warm from Allie's back.

Last month she'd asked Michael to pick up Matthew from practice—just once—so she could make her evening yoga class. He'd sighed like she'd requested he donate a kidney. “Can't you go next week?” She'd canceled. Again.

And when she'd tried to tell him she was struggling? “Thyroid.”

Her phone buzzed. A text from Michael: 

Running late tonight. Don't wait for dinner.

She stared at the screen. He never asked how her day was. Never noticed when she was struggling.

Eight days.

Chapter 5

At 8:40 AM on Monday, Grace stood at her office window, coffee cooling in her hand. Four days until Friday, when she'd sit in a dark theater next to Allie for two hours and pretend they were just colleagues going to a show.

Travis's voice ricocheted down the hallway. "You all need to see this!” He jangled keys like he’d just robbed a medieval castle.

Within seconds, offices and the kitchen emptied—everyone except Claire. Grace followed the small migration of therapists to what had once been Sarah Clarke’s office.

Travis stood beaming beside a tall bookshelf he’d dragged away from the wall. He gestured dramatically toward a slender door the case had concealed until now. 

“I was rearranging the furniture,” he said, eyes bright with discovery, “trying to make better use of the space—and boom. Hidden door.”

Grace stepped closer, fingertips grazing the solid door’s wood frame. Someone had painted it the same forgettable cream as the surrounding wall. Even the molding had been disguised. The brass handle looked original to the house—solid, tarnished, with a keyhole better suited to a Victorian parlor than a therapist’s office.

“None of my keys fit,” Travis said, jiggling his oversized ring. “This needs a Victorian skeleton key or something.”

Leo blew across the top of his tea, taking in the keyhole with narrowed eyes. “Strange that Sarah never mentioned this.” He took a thoughtful sip. “Then again … she was a sphinx. Twelve years in the next office and I can think of maybe four real conversations.”

Sarah Clarke: silver hair, cardigans in all weather, voice barely escaping her throat. In her later years, Sarah had shifted her practice to grief-counseling, scheduling mostly elderly clients in afternoon slots. A loner, she declined communal lunches with a polite but firm shake of her head. 

"Probably, it's just storage. Tax records, stuff like that." Travis sighed. He clapped his hands once. “I’ll get the landlord to send a locksmith." His eyes widened. “What if there’s something spooky in there?"

Leo stirred his tea. “Let’s proceed in order: locksmith, then ghostbuster, then exorcist. Ideally, we skip steps two and three.”

Travis pressed a palm to his chest. “If I die mysteriously, I want my obituary to read: ‘Beloved therapist, victim of haunted Victorian closet.’”

Allie's laugh burst out—the kind that made everyone else smile.

Grace looked down quickly, pretending to steady her coffee, as her face went hot. When she glanced up, Allie was watching her. Their eyes met for half a second before Allie looked away, color rising in her cheeks.

Grace turned back toward the door, the room tilting slightly.

Did Allie feel it, too? No, that couldn't be.

Leo’s mouth twitched—his closest approximation of amusement. He said to Travis, “I’ll write your obit myself.”

One by one, the others drifted back toward their offices. Grace lingered.

Her hand traced the painted-over seam of the door. A hidden space in the room where Sarah had spent decades coaxing secrets from people who'd kept them hidden. What would a woman like Sarah hide?

Back in her office, Grace checked her phone before her next client arrived. A text from her mother, sent two hours ago:

Mom

Still dizzy. But don't fuss.

Grace typed back: 

Grace

Please call Dr. Morrison. Do it for me.

She knew her mother wouldn't. Stubbornness was a Brennan family trait, passed down like eye color.

* * *

That afternoon, Grace sat across from a young woman perched on the edge of the couch, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles blanched white.

“What brings you here today?” Grace asked, glancing at the intake form: Jessica Caldwell. Twenty-five. MIT chemistry grad student.

Jessica blinked at the question, as if she hadn’t expected to be asked anything so directly. The wall clock ticked five seconds, then ten.

Grace offered a small, encouraging smile. “No rush.”

A dust mote drifted through a beam of September sunlight between them.

“I don’t know how to start,” Jessica whispered.

“Start wherever feels right.” Grace settled back in her chair, creating space.

Jessica drew a shaky breath. “My boyfriend—Nick—we’ve been together since junior year. He’s … perfect. Brilliant. Thoughtful. The kind of guy everyone says you should want.” She looked down at her fingers. “My mother practically has our wedding planned.”

A long pause.

Grace waited. When Jessica seemed unable to continue, Grace prodded. “But that’s not how you feel?”

Jessica’s gaze flickered up. “There’s someone at my lab. Cathryn.” Her voice dropped. “When she walks in, I forget what I’m doing.”

Jessica's cheeks bloomed with color that spread down her neck. "I count the days until I can see her again. I know how it sounds, but I've rearranged my schedule just to be in the lab when she's there. Last week—" She paused, eyes bright. "We had to clean the evaporator together. The chemicals smelled like rotten eggs, and I made some stupid joke. She laughed and touched my arm, just for a second. I've replayed that moment a hundred times." Jessica glowed as she said it—lit from within by the memory. 

Grace’s breath went shallow. A memory flickered—Hannah's face close to hers, both of them breathless. Just messing around.

Then Jessica's smile crumbled. She looked down at her hands. "Last night I couldn't sleep. I kept seeing her face. The way her hair falls across her forehead when she leans over a microscope." She paused, then murmured, "I imagined brushing it back."

Voice neutral, Grace asked, "What makes that difficult for you?"

“I’ve never—' Jessica pressed her fingertips against her lips. “I’ve only had boyfriends. Four of them since high school. I'm not into girls.”

"So this is … raising questions?"

“Yeah." She twisted a silver ring on her index finger. "I mean … I'm not really wondering if I'm gay. At least, well, not most of the time. If I liked guys before, I can’t suddenly like girls, right? But if what I feel about Cathryn isreal, then what was I doing all those years?” Tears welled. "Nick keeps asking what's wrong. I keep saying 'nothing.' But I feel like I'm lying to him every day. How do I tell him I might not be who he thinks I am?"

“You don't have to have yourself figured out before you're honest with Nick," Grace said. "Sometimes the honesty is: 'I don't know what this means yet, but I need to find out.'"

Jessica looked up. "But what if I'm wrong? What if I hurt him and it turns out this was just... confusion?"

"Then you'll have hurt him by being honest about your confusion. That's different than hurting him by lying." Grace leaned forward. "You can't protect him from your uncertainty. But you can protect both of you from dishonesty."

Jessica wiped her eyes with her sleeve, suddenly looking about nineteen. “Yeah. Right now, I feel like I'm lying to everyone. To Nick. To myself. And I don’t know what any of it means.”

“When you talk about Cathryn,” Grace said, “your whole expression changes. What happens inside you when you’re with her?”

Jessica’s voice warmed. “I feel … visible. Like I’ve been underwater and suddenly broke the surface. She notices things no one else sees. Silly things—like how I organize my pipettes. Or the way I hum when I’m concentrating. When I’m with her, I feel like the person I want to be. It’s a little terrifying, but I feel awake.”

“And with Nick?” 

Jessica's shoulders slumped. "Safe. Comfortable. Predictable. The path my mother wants for me."

Grace’s mother had loved Michael from the start. "He's a good man," she'd said. "Like your father."

Grace nodded.

But what am I supposed to do now? I can't just tell Nick I might be gay after three years together. What if this is just confusion? What if I destroy everything and find out I was wrong?"

“You don’t have to resolve this overnight. It sounds like it’s too soon to tell Nick you think you're gay. Understanding yourself comes first.”

Jessica breathed out. “So … I take my time.”

“Yes. Think about what draws you to her. Writing about it sometimes works well for processing. See if there were moments in your past you dismissed. And spend time with her—coffee, a walk, something low-stakes. When you're with her, pay attention to what comes alive in you, what quiets down.  You’re gathering information.”

Jessica shifted. "Do you think I should talk to Cathryn? Tell her how I'm feeling?"

“That's something to consider carefully. Think about what you need to understand about yourself first, before bringing someone else into the question." She rested her elbows on her knees. "You're still sorting yourself out."

Jessica nodded, shoulders loosening. "Okay."

For the rest of the session, they worked through practical steps—how Jessica might give herself space, how to talk with Nick if and when she was ready.  Grace watched tension lift from Jessica’s posture bit by bit, replaced by something like cautious hope.

When their fifty minutes ended, Jessica paused at the door. "Thank you. You helped me feel less broken."

Grace offered a small, warm smile. "Nobody has it all figured out. We're all just learning as we go.”

Jessica let out a breath.

"And when you know yourself better," Grace said, "you get more room to move. To shift things. To choose what fits. So keep paying attention to what feels true for you.”

Jessica nodded, eyes shining, and left.

Alone again, Grace stared at the empty chair. The September light had shifted, shadows lengthening across the floor. She looked at her notes: Recognition, circled twice. Jessica had lit up describing how Cathryn made her feel—alive, seen, like her best self.

She had one more couple to see. But for now, she stood at the window, watching Cambridge move below.

Her phone sat on the desk. She could text Allie. Something casual.

Her hand moved toward it, stopped.

Understand yourself before bringing someone else into the question.

She'd just given Jessica that advice.

Her phone stayed where it was.

Four days.

Chapter 6

Wednesday morning, every therapist but Claire gathered in Travis’s office to witness the Great Closet Opening.

The locksmith crouched by the narrow, once-hidden door, his tools clicking softly as he worked the old brass lock. Picks and tension wrench moved with patient precision.

Grace stood near the window, pretending to study the maple leaves outside. But she kept glancing toward the tiny movements of the locksmith’s hands. Leo leaned in the doorway, arms folded. Allie stood next to him, shoulder almost brushing his.

“Got it,” the locksmith said at last.

The lock gave with a soft metallic sigh. The door swung outward on creaking hinges.

Everyone leaned in.

The space behind it was smaller than any of them expected—a shallow closet, barely deeper than an arm’s reach. Gray horsehair plaster walls from the house’s original bones. From a hook, a blue cardigan dangled in its dry-cleaning plastic, ticket stapled crookedly near the top. On the floor: a plastic bag stuffed with paper decorations—crumpled Halloween pumpkins, faded Christmas garlands, all brittle with time.

And on the shelf, a wooden box with a tiny brass clasp. On the lid, block letters in black marker: SARAH C.

Travis blinked twice. “Seriously? That’s it? No skeleton? No case files of doom?”

“Just some old storage,” the locksmith said, already packing his tools.

“Stuff she shut away and forgot about,” Allie murmured.

The words snagged. Things you shut away and forget about. She knew that process too well.

The others began to drift back toward their offices. Grace’s gaze followed Allie’s retreating back without quite meaning to. 

“We shouldn’t just toss the box,” she said, nodding toward the shelf. “We don’t know what’s in it.”

Leo studied the label. “Sarah had a sister. I’ll ask Claire if she still has contact info. We’ll see if the family wants it.”

The locksmith shut his kit with a click. The door, now open, had revealed its ordinary secrets. The house seemed to exhale.

* * *

It was nearly eight that night when Grace wandered back into the communal kitchen to make tea.

The old Victorian had emptied hours earlier. Leo had left at precisely five-thirty, as always. Claire had drifted out around six with a distracted wave. Travis had bounced off at seven, humming some pop anthem as he went.

Now the September heat clung to the house, trapped in the old wood and plaster. The air conditioner had given up. Night pressed against the dark windowpanes.

Grace stopped short.

Allie stood at the counter, spooning vanilla ice cream into two ceramic bowls. A jar of chocolate sauce waited open beside them, lid abandoned.

A floorboard creaked under Grace’s foot. Allie turned, a strand of chestnut hair slipping loose and falling across her cheek.

“Please tell me you haven’t gone full wellness on me,” Allie said, holding up the chocolate sauce.

“God, no.” Grace moved closer. “I’m pro-vice. Strongly pro-vice.”

“Good.” Allie smiled and scooped generous mounds of ice cream into the bowls, then began a slow drizzle of chocolate over each one. As she poured, her eyes lifted to meet Grace’s and stayed there a beat too long.

A thin ribbon of chocolate missed the bowl and landed on the white countertop.

“Oops.” Allie glanced down, then back up at Grace. “I can hear your internal tsk-tsk from here.”

"I'm not judging. I'm observing. Clinically."

“Right. And your clinical observation has nothing to say about the chocolate on the counter."

"Oh, it has volumes to say." 

Grace flushed.

“We’ve worked together eight years. I know that look.”

Grace tapped her foot. “Some of us would like our ice cream before another eight years pass.”

“Can’t rush perfection.” Allie dragged her index finger through the chocolate spill. Then, before Grace could step back, she reached out and drew a warm, sticky brown stripe across Grace’s forearm.

“You did not just—”

Grace lunged for the jar. Allie pivoted, shielding it with her body, and Grace followed—one hand reaching over Allie's shoulder, the other at her hip. Their bodies pressed together, fitted like nested spoons.

Allie’s laugh vibrated through Grace’s chest. Her hip bumped Grace’s thigh as she twisted away.

Grace laughed too. When Allie finally straightened, they were close—too close. Their faces hovered inches apart. Grace could hear her own breathing, sharper than it should be. 

She should step back. She didn’t.

She bumped Allie’s hip with her own. “You’re trouble.”

Allie’s eyes sparked. “Trouble? I add excitement to your life.”

The chocolate cooled on Grace’s skin in a tacky stripe. “You planning to clean this up?”

Allie reached for a paper towel with her right hand. With her left, she circled Grace’s wrist, drawing her arm closer.

“Hold still,” she said.

She wiped the chocolate away in small, careful motions, thumb steady, touch gentle. Like she was tenderly nursing a toddler’s scraped elbow. Something jumped in Grace’s chest. 

“If we don’t eat that soon, we’re going to be drinking it,” Grace managed.

“Do you want this clean or not?” Allie inspected her work, then let Grace’s arm go.

The loss of contact landed like a small pang. 

Allie slid the ice cream back into the freezer. “My office?” she said lightly. “The couch actually has some give. Unlike that medieval torture rack you call furniture.”

“After you.”

Allie’s office sat just above Grace’s, tucked under the eaves. The ceiling sloped low in places, making the room feel like a secret attic.

The dove-gray sectional sofa curved along one wall, pillows in soft blues and deep reds scattered across it. Books spilled along mismatched shelves: clinical texts pressed against worn poetry collections. Grace’s eyes landed on a battered Adrienne Rich with a spray of sticky flags.

Allie curled into one corner of the sectional. Grace took the other. Two cushions of neutral fabric stretched between them, more suggestion of distance than actual space.

“Your office actually has a personality,” Grace said. “Mine is just a room where therapy happens.”

Allie smiled. "This room is my second home. When the kids are with Mark, my house feels like a hotel lobby at three a.m. So I end up here." She scooped up a spoonful of melting vanilla and chocolate. "Living my best life in a Victorian with shitty acoustics."

Grace watched her, too aware of the way Allie's lips closed around the spoon, lingered a second, then released it. A small, low sound of satisfaction slipped from Allie as she chased a smear of chocolate from her bottom lip.

Grace realized she was staring and looked down quickly, stirring her ice cream. "What do you do when they're gone?" she asked. "On those nights."

Allie groaned. "Oh God, I've tried everything. Yoga classes? Couples in matching outfits. Book clubs? Really old people. Dating apps?" She rolled her eyes. "My last date spent thirty straight minutes explaining her moon water ritual."

Grace's spoon paused midair. Her last date. 

"What?" Allie asked.

"Nothing." Grace shook her head comically. "Brain freeze."

They sat in silence for a while. Finally, Grace said, “What about friends? Don't you have anyone you can call? Grab a drink with?"

Allie set down her bowl. "I have two good friends from grad school. But one's in Portland, the other in Chicago. And Mark got most of our local couple friends in the divorce.” Her voice went flat. "Turns out they were his friends who tolerated me.” A pause, then her eyes brightened. “But I’ve made a few women friends since the divorce. I hope you’ll meet one of them Friday night at the theater. … What about you?"

Grace thought of Stephanie.  "I have a best friend from college. I’m lucky she’s here in Boston, too. We see each other pretty often, but not as much as we’d like.” She shrugged. “Busy lives.”

Grace traced the edge of her bowl. “And I never made mom friends. Everyone else was doing playgroups and school pickup while I was here seeing clients."

"God, yes." Allie leaned forward. “And we’re in this weird profession where our daily social exposure is having intimate conversations with people we can’t actually be friends with.” 

Grace exhaled without realizing she'd been holding her breath. “It's definitely bizarre."

"So we end up here." Allie gestured at the office. "Where at least there are other adults who understand the work. Even if Leo won't stop talking about his bran muffins."

Grace laughed. "And Travis wants to cleanse your aura."

"Small price to pay for a bit of human contact." Allie's smile faded. "But it's not enough, is it? I mean, it's not the same as having someone to just ... be with. Without having to be ‘on’ all the time, competent and professional.”

She leaned back against the cushions, barefoot, ankles crossed. "I keep telling myself I should be fine alone," she said. "Independent feminist icon, right? But when the kids leave, the quiet feels like … missing oxygen." She stirred the melted ice cream. "So I come here. First car in, last car out." She tilted her head. "Remind you of anyone?"

Grace studied a loose thread on her sleeve. "My schedule's packed," she said. "The paperwork alone—”

"Don't bullshit me." Allie shifted, their knees almost touching now. "We all have full caseloads. But you and I are the only ones who linger like this place has something home doesn't." Her gaze softened. "What's missing at home, Grace?"

The question snagged in Grace's throat. Last night: Michael on the couch, eyes on some surgery video. She'd said hello, stood in the doorway for a full minute. He never looked up. 

"Nothing. I—" she started, then stopped. The lie tasted flat.

Allie waited.

"Do you and Michael ever just … talk?" she asked quietly. "About anything that actually matters?"

Grace set her bowl aside. Her fingertip traced the rim. "We …" She searched for a specific memory and came up empty. "Maybe last spring?" It sounded flimsy even to her.

Silence settled between them. Not awkward; more like a held breath.

"Look at us," Allie said at last, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. "Different lives, same lonely."

Grace looked up. This close, in the soft lamplight, she noticed things she hadn’t before: the faint white scar above Allie’s eyebrow, the way her left dimple appeared a fraction of a second before the right when she smiled. 

Allie collected their bowls and nested them on the coffee table with a quiet clink. When she sat back, she angled her body slightly more toward Grace.

“Okay. Give me one thing nobody else knows about you.”

Grace’s heart thudded. One honest answer and everything would shift. “That’s dangerous territory.”

“I’m not wearing my therapist hat,” Allie said.

Grace took a breath. “Sometimes,” she said slowly, “I sit in my car in my own driveway. For twenty minutes. Half an hour. I just … sit there.”

Allie’s expression didn’t change, except for a soft sharpening at the edges. Listening.

“I picture putting the car back in gear,” Grace continued, “and just … driving. Not toward anything specific. Just away.” She gave a short, brittle laugh. “And then I imagine getting to I-95 and realizing I have no idea where to go. So I stay parked like an idiot in front of my own house.”

“Very dramatic,” Allie said. “I approve. Deeply on-brand.”

“I’m not dramatic.”

“Sure. You’re contemplative.” Her lips twitched. “Where does the road lead, in your head?”

“That’s the problem,” Grace said. “I can’t see it. Just … blank.”

Allie pulled her knees up again. “I got so good at being Mark’s wife,” she said quietly, “I stopped existing as a separate person. After a while, I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began. So when the marriage ended …” She shrugged. “There was no one left to go back to.”

Grace swallowed. “Was that part of why it ended?”

“One piece.” Allie’s fingers laced loosely around her shins. “I spent years contorting myself to fit what he wanted. And then—” She hesitated. “Then I was also starting to realize I’m gay.”

“Did you know, when you married him?” Her mouth felt dry. She wasn’t sure who she was asking about—Allie or herself.

“I don’t know,” Allie said. “There were … intense friendships in college. Dreams I’d wake up from and pretend I hadn’t had.” She exhaled slowly. “I told myself I wanted the normal thing. Husband, kids. It was easier to believe that when I had the marriage to point to.”

“And afterward?” Grace asked softly.

“After the divorce,” Allie said, “there was nothing left to hide behind.” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “Terrifying doesn’t begin to cover it. Also liberating, on a good day. But mostly terrifying.” She shook her head. “There’s no manual for this. Gay mom, divorced, starting over near forty.”

Grace remembered the afternoon Allie had told her, almost five years ago, “Turns out I'm gay.” Grace had smiled, hugged her, said all the right supportive things.

Without thinking, Grace reached for her again now. Her thumb landed on the inside of Allie’s wrist, where the skin was thin and warm. She felt a small jump—whether it was Allie’s pulse or her own nerves, she couldn’t tell.

The room seemed to narrow, her lungs too small. She flattened her other palm against the couch cushion to keep from doing something even more revealing.

Her phone screen lit up on the table: 9:23.

“I had no idea it was so late,” she said.

“No rush here.” Allie stretched, arms lifting over her head. Her sweater rode up. A line of bare skin above her waistband.  “Mark has the kids. What about you—do you need to head back?”

“Michael had an emergency surgery,” Grace said. “We have a sitter. But I should go relieve her.” She didn’t move.

“Right,” Allie said. She stood, smoothing her sweater. “I should let you go.”

"You're not keeping me," Grace said. "I just… don't really want to go."

She looked at the door. Looked back at Allie.

"But I should … go," she said at last.

“Okay.” Allie walked her to the top of the stairs. “Drive safely, Gracie.”

Grace nodded, slipped past her, and headed down the creaking steps.

* * *

When the light turned green at the Alewife intersection, traffic surged toward the Route 2 rotary in a series of jerky advances—brake lights blooming and fading in front of her.

Grace rested her forehead briefly against the steering wheel. The churn of the engine thrummed through her bones.

She'd touched Allie's wrist. Had told her she didn't want to leave.

A horn tapped behind her. She eased forward. In two days, she'd sit next to Allie in a dark theater and—what? Pretend this wasn't happening?

The road opened up in front of her.

END OF PREVIEW EXCERPT

* * *

Thanks for reading. I hope you’ve enjoyed this preview of Seen At Last.  The full novel will be available in early May, 2026. 

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