S i n c l a i r
y day has been a blur, my work a write-off. I skipped the K Klub at lunch—couldn’t face running into Felix or
Kieran—and instead bailed early, taking my sorry ass off home and stopping just short of killing myself on a
ninety-minute Peloton endurance ride.
Hours later, I lie spent on my couch and stare, unseeing, at my ceiling.
It’s gotten dark by now, but I can’t find the energy to get up and switch any lamps on, so the only light comes
from the ever-present ambient glow of Manhattan through my windows.
I’m fucking drained: physically and emotionally. It turns out, indignation is a seriously effective tool when
you’re pushing through your Functional Threshold Power on the bike.
Elyse ambushed me this morning.
Worse, she ambushed me fresh from a bullshit debrief from a former employee who was at peak pissed-ness.
Who the hell could have foreseen that Vanessa would act so fucking quickly to undermine me?
And worst of all, Elyse wouldn’t even let me finish. How the hell was I supposed to defend myself when she
wouldn’t hear me out? If only she had listened.
But the indignation—a time-worn tool of the Voss family that tends to look a lot like Don’t you know who I
am?—is fading as quickly as the postride endorphins are, leaving an empty, helpless kind of vacuum.
Because, for the first time in a long time, I have no next move.
I have no fucking clue what to do.
And helplessness is not a sensation I ever entertain.
As I close my eyes against the lights of New York playing across my ceiling, I understand unequivocally that
the universe has a diabolical sense of humor. Elyse’s beautiful face, so elusive to me on all those nights when
I lay in my bed and pushed and pushed to conjure it up, is now tattooed on my mind’s eye with what feels
right now like permanent ink. But rather than seeing her as I long to see her, I’m seeing her for how she
looked today.
I’m seeing the way her face full-on collapsed when I made the move of referring to our dates here, in my
home, as sessions—a turn of phrase, but a stupid one. Her flushed cheeks when she stood and accused me of
playing God with her career.
And something about that last flash of memory gives me pause. I ke ep my eyes closed, and I ball my hands
into fists, and I force myself to lie here and really see what my mind’s eye is showing me—to watch it. I have
thoughts about how I behaved that day in the pitch meeting; I have residual guilt. But I’d largely made peace
with it before Elyse showed up today, and I would have made peace with it more fully had she unknowingly
allowed me to compensate her for what I took from her.
She signed the divorce papers. Now he wants to talk.
Sometimes the best part is watching him earn a second chance.
Still, forcing myself to r eplay this morning’s events in all their brutal, shocking detail is making one thing
supremely clear: no matter how indignant I’ve been over what felt like a stealth attack, Elyse has her own
narrative in her head, one she’s bought into wholesale, and it in no way fits what I’ve been telling myself. In
Elyse’s world, I’ve done something despicable. I’ve betrayed her by being, in her eyes, careless and
dismissive and unilateral. And, much as it frustrates me that I can’t simply make the hard calls from time to
time and not have them bite me in the ass, I’d do well to extend her the courtesy of considering things from
her perspective.
After all, I’ve been falling in love with her these past few weeks. I have fallen in love with her, that much is
clear, and the sight of her huge, wet eyes and harrowed face emblazoned across my mind’s eye is a real jolt; I
won’t lie.
So I lie here and lie here, and I attempt to mentally untangle my version of events from hers as if they’re
different colored yarns impossibly entwined. I could cheerfully wring Vanessa’s neck, that much is clear, but
what’s also clear is that Elyse truly believes I’ve done her a great wrong, and that epiphany has shaken her to
her core. I r eplay and r eplay this morning’s events so exhaustively that everything starts to feel surreal, as if
I’m on some sort of trip. I know my first, panicked instinct was to lie my way out of trouble today... but I still
can’t discern whether the thing I lied about was a wrongdoing. The longer I stew, the more I fail to achieve
clarity on much, exc ept for one, damning thing: I can no longer trust my own account of anything—not this
morning, not my behavior in the pitch meeting—and that is fucking terrifying. I feel like I’m being tossed
about at sea. I can’t tell which way is up. The one detail that sears me with its unflinching pain is the memory
of Elyse recounting, with brutal fidelity, the awful, unforgivable lies I told Vanessa by way of axing the
proposed campaign.
Unmemorable. Meh. Not worth the money.
If I felt guilty that night at dinner when Elyse extolled her own shortcomings to explain away her lack of
breakout success to date, now I feel sick to my stomach.
Fuuuuuck.
My desperation for some other kind of anchor, some tether to reality, has me fumbling for my cell and pulling
up my photos from last weekend at Fairwater. I click on one of the snaps I persuaded Elyse to let me take in
bed that first morning. Her face fills my screen, exc ept it’s the version of her face that I long to dream of at
night. In the photo, she gazes up at me, hair tousled and smile soft and face sle epy and open. She’s looking at
me as if she would trust me with her life and the life of everyone she loves.
As I use my fingers to zoom in even closer, to drink her up, I understand two things with the vicious agony of
a knife through the stomach: One. I didn’t see any of those things in her face today. Precisely the opposite, in
fact.
Two. The woman in this photo was showing me, with her eyes and her smile, that I had in my possession the
most precious thing in the world.
Her heart.
And I ruined that today.