Part 1The Frame She Left Empty

Meredith never appeared in front of a lens.

When we went on dates and I took photos of our dinner, she would pull her hands away from the table. When it came to our wedding pictures, she refused to pose at all; in the end, I was the only one in the frame, wearing a tuxedo and awkwardly cradling a potted cactus. In the eight years we were together, my social media was full of declarations of love where I was always standing alone.

People said I was a glutton for punishment, marrying a woman who treated me like a ghost.

I never felt neglected, though. Because it wasn't personal. Meredith treated everyone that way. There wasn’t a single picture of her in her family’s living room, not even a headshot on her company’s executive website.

Until our department took an annual retreat to Paris.

At dinner, the intern, Cody, handed his phone to our waiter. "Could you take a quick photo of us?"

Everyone at the table, including me, instinctively shifted aside to give Meredith room to slip out of the frame.

"Madame, give us a smile," the waiter said in accented English. "Look how handsome your boyfriend is."

That was when I noticed.

Meredith hadn't ducked away. Instead, hearing the waiter’s words, the corners of her mouth curved upward into a soft, unmistakable smile.

In the heavy silence that followed, I tapped out a message to my best friend, Joanna.

"Is there still room for one more on your backpacking trip?"

"I think my wife just fell in love."

* * *

"Magnifique. You two are the most stunning couple I've served all week."

The waiter handed the phone back to Cody. "And sir, that patterned tie matches the lady’s scarf perfectly."

I looked at the silk scarf around Meredith’s neck—the one I had carefully tied for her before leaving the hotel that morning. Only then did it hit me: the waiter thought they were together.

Meredith didn't correct him.

Instead, she signed the receipt and slid her black card across the small mahogany tray. Her French rolled off her tongue with effortless grace, smooth as music. "Keep the change. And could you box up a slice of the tiramisu to go?"

"A hundred percent tip? Ah, madame, a woman who spoils her husband is blessed with eternal good luck."

Meredith handed the dessert box to Cody.

When she stood up, her gaze fell on my plate. I was still holding my fork, halfway through a slice of bacon.

Her brows drew together in sharp disapproval. "Ian, you’re moving too slowly. Don’t hold up the entire group."

Earlier that morning, when everyone had already piled into the tour van, Cody had suddenly stamped his feet in dramatic dismay.

"Oh no! I forgot my little plush rabbit back in the room! I promised myself I'd take a picture with it at the Eiffel Tower." He turned to Meredith, widening his eyes. "Boss, you can do anything. Help me out, please?"

Meredith had glanced at me through the rearview mirror. "Ian, you handled the logistics and planning for this retreat. Go run up and grab it for him."

By the time I dug through Cody’s messy heap of luggage, found the toy, and rushed back down to the lobby, the curb was completely empty. The van was gone.

A notification from the group chat popped up on my phone.

It was Cody: "Ian, the boss said we can't be late for our eight-o'clock breakfast reservation. You made the itinerary slide deck, so you definitely know where the bistro is. I won’t bother sending a pin! Don’t worry though, I’ll protect your breakfast plate for you!"

When I finally reached the bistro out of breath, everyone had practically finished eating.

My plate was stripped bare of pancakes, leaving behind only two cold, greasy strips of bacon and a mound of bland roasted potatoes.

"The boss said you don’t really have a sweet tooth," Cody said, blinking innocently. "I didn't want it to go to waste. You’re not mad at me, right, Ian?"

A dull, sour ache swelled in my chest.

I lowered my head and chewed down the cold bacon in two quick bites. Then I forced down a forkful of dry potatoes.

As I hurried to catch up with the group outside, snatches of conversation drifted back to me from two colleagues walking ahead.

"Can you believe he just sat there while the waiter called another guy her husband? Total pushover."

"He has to suck up to Meredith, doesn't he? He’s getting older, he’s boring as hell, and if he doesn't learn how to read the room, she’s gonna throw him out."

"Shh, lower your voice. What if he hears you?"

"Even Meredith didn't stand up for him. What are we supposed to be scared of?"

Under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, Cody held up the plush rabbit, angling his camera this way and that, clearly dissatisfied with his selfies.

"Ian, let me borrow your wife for a second!"

Before I could answer, he shoved the stuffed animal straight into Meredith’s arms.

"Come on, boss, hold it like you actually have a heart. Don't look like an emotionless hitman!"

"Childish," Meredith muttered.

Yet, despite the complaint, she adjusted the plush toy in the crook of her arm, softening her posture.

In the crisp chill of the Parisian autumn wind, Meredith lit a slim cigarette.

"Since when do you take photos?" I asked quietly, coming up beside her.

Without a word, she reached out, took my phone from my hand, lifted it, and clicked the shutter.

"Snap."

She dropped the phone back into my palm.

"There. Now we have a photo together." She looked at me, her expression turning cool. "Stop dragging your feet and moping around. Everyone is here to have a good time. Nobody owes you emotional babysitting."

She turned on her heel and walked away.

I stared down at the screen. The woman in the photo looked icy and detached; the man looked exhausted and hollow. There wasn't an ounce of affection between them. We looked like strangers trapped in an elevator.

A message chimed on my screen from Joanna: "My flight boards tonight, man! Are you having the time of your life under the Eiffel Tower right now? Sweeping Meredith off her feet?"

No. But my wife was standing beneath the iron beams, opening her mouth to let another man feed her cake.

I let out a dry, breathy laugh and typed back:

"Take me with you on the trail."

"My wife... I think she's in love with someone else."