Preview chapters of "Seen At Last"

Sunday, September 3, 2023

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

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

Nearby, kids whined for popsicles, a couple argued over the best marinade. Labor Day weekend bodies rolled carts in loose, noisy currents.

“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 in her pocket—two long vibrations. A call, not a text. Michael.

“Okay,” she said, surprising even herself by such quick acquiescence. 

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 too soon, 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. Life reasserted itself. The dry cleaners. 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—"

Grace watched Allie walk toward her car.

"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—"

"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 a darkened theater. Then she’d drive home to Michael and act like nothing was shifting.

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 that 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 

The copier groaned, each page sliding out reluctantly. 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 dozens of times throughout each 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 with his Crossfit instructor, 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. "When's the last time Michael noticed something about you and commented? Not some errand you ran for him or something you did for the kids. Just about you.” 

Grace opened her mouth. Closed it. The answer should have come easily. It didn't.

"That long, huh?" Allie said softly.

Grace looked away. "We're both busy. The kids, work—"

"Grace." Just her name. No judgment or pity. Just acknowledgment.

The air conditioner clattered on, filling the silence. 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 own 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 from 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 that 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.

When she reached home twenty-five minutes later, 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. The whole tableau 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. The same conversation.

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.”

Grace waited for him to ask about her day—the opening she'd given him a hundred times before. He reached for his water glass instead.

"I had something happen today," she tried. "A couple I've been seeing for months—"

"Did you pick up my prescription?" He leaned against the opposite counter, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

The story about her clients died in her throat. "Not yet. I'll get it with the dry cleaning tomorrow."

He nodded.

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

“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. Grace stood still for a beat, the slight sensation of his touch fading. Allie's hand on her forearm earlier that night had burned through cotton. 

He started out of the room, then paused, turned back. "How was yours? Your day?"

Relief bloomed in her chest. "Actually kind of interesting. I'm working with this couple—"

His phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, frowned at the screen. "Sorry. It’s Hendricks. This'll just take a second." He pressed the phone to his ear. 

"Yeah, I saw your email ..." He drifted toward his study, voice fading.

Grace stood in the kitchen, her half-started story hanging in the air like smoke. 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 to check on Mia, 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."

On you, Grace thought. The late nights took a toll on him. He'd noticed her pattern—but only because it inconvenienced his routine.

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.

"What do you mean?"

She searched his face for genuine curiosity. Found only polite attention—the expression he probably used with surgical-supply reps. She wanted to say: I mean I don't recognize my life. I mean I feel like I'm disappearing in this marriage. Instead, she said, “I mean us. The way we ..." She gestured between them, the space in the bed that felt wider than physics allowed. "We don't really talk anymore. Not about anything that matters."

"We're talking now." He glanced at his iPad screen.

"Are we?"

He sighed—not angry, just tired. "Grace, I don't know what you want from me. I'm here. I work. I come home. What else is there?"

Frustration rose in her throat like bile. “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.

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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