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collection of porcelain figurines on the shelves.
    “You like?” Ma beamed. “Many years it take.”
    There were different shapes and sizes, some hand painted with gold accents, others the kind you’d find at a garage sale, but each was grouped into a family—mother, father, a kid, maybe three or four, a pet, sometimes a house.
    “This us.” She handed me a set of three, painted in soft colors. “I get when I have baby. Me, Kamal and little boy Hafez.”
    “Very nice,” I said. “Now you need to fit me in there.”
    “No.” She returned her miniature family to the top tier. “This mine. You need make own.” Ma laughed and patted my belly.

6. Almost There

    August 4th, 1995
    “Perfect,” says Troy . “I’ll take it.”
    “But you haven’t seen the rest of it.” I’m standing before the wide glass doors, ready to lead him to the private rooftop pool.
    “No need.” He stops behind me and catches my eyes in the reflection. “I like it.” His voice drops. “A lot.”
    My breath fogs up the pane. A lifetime ago, I had turned to him as we stood like this.
    I think perhaps that had been the beginning.
    “Why are you doing this?” I ask.
    He picks up a curl and plays with it. “I’m dying to kiss you.”
    But he doesn’t kiss me. I lie outside the circle of free, single girls. He wants me, but he wants me to open that door, fully empowered, fully aware.
    Let me in.
    I turn away. “Should I draw up an offer?”
    “Please.” But he says it in his bedroom voice.
    I picture him under me, waiting for the brush of my lips, my fingers, my tongue.
    Please.
    My hands are unsteady as I pick up the papers and skim over them. This is the sixth property we’ve seen since Bob left for his cruise.
    ‘Carved from a century-old warehouse, with twenty foot exposed wood beam ceilings, sandblasted brick walls, motorized window coverings, heated floors and an elevator to a private garage, this two bedroom penthouse loft, with a custom built gym and library, is one of the largest and most spectacular units in the city.’
    I remember reading the listing and thinking it would be perfect. And maybe, just maybe, I’d be free of Troy. Every hour we spend together intensifies my awareness of him. The scent of his skin, the shape of his nails, the subtle inflections in his voice—the savvy businessman, the charming bad boy, the sensual lover. Watching him eat, talk, smile, tease, it’s easy to see why women come undone around him. That insatiable appetite for life, the intrinsic confidence, the dark, dangerous allure wrapped in layers of genuine playfulness.
    “Okay then.” I start turning the lights off.
    This is it. We’ve found him a place. I’m almost there, still intact.
    We take the private elevator down. Small spaces are the worse. Cars, laundry rooms, guest bathrooms, walk-in closets. I’ve been in them all with him, showing him this, inspecting that. Soon, I’ll be able to breathe freely.
    “I leave for New York in three days. If we could have this wrapped up by then, it would be great,” he says when the doors open.
    “The closing isn’t for another two months. That’s if they accept our offer.”
    “They’ll accept. I want it. Whatever it takes.” He walks me to my car before saying goodbye.
    I get in and shut the door, massaging my temples. The stress of holding it together when I’m around him drains me.
    I jump at the knock on my window.
    He’s circled back. Now what?
    “I just realized that I’m officially living in the city,” he says. “I think that calls for a celebration.”
    “I can’t, Troy.”
    “Can’t?” He looks at me for a moment. “I like ‘can’t’. Much better than ‘won’t’.”
    “Can’t, won’t. What difference does it make?”
    He straightens, but his smile is oddly unsettling. “See you when I get back, Shayda.”

7. Beetroot Butterfly

    September 29th, 1995
    “Bye, Shayda. Have a great weekend.”
    “You too.” I wave back at Susan, set the code