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again?” Janet asked.
    Celia snorted. “No. Ask me again in two months, when I have more of my body back.”
    They went into a new store called Space. Celia had not told Janet that a specific event—pizza at Oliver’s apartment that night—was driving the shopping trip. She was not sure why she’d kept quiet. Having dinner with her stepson was innocent. Maybe the hesitation was because Janet did not like Oliver. Or maybe the hesitation was because Celia liked having a little place to herself, a little knowledge to herself. The urge to escape, to not be Celia Hall, to not be David’s wife, to not be Caleb’s mother, had pounded at Celia since the car accident.
    When did time alone become such a bad thing? Her mother and Janet hovered. Richard had the tendency to pop up behind furniture and point out that so and so thing needed polishing or fixing up and that he would be glad to do it. Shirley was driving Celia batty, with being always on about David this, David that: David smiled today, I swear it. This is nothing; he’ll be back with us soon.
    In any case, Celia saw nothing wrong with wanting to buy a stain-free shirt to commemorate dinner with someone new.
    Celia plucked a dress in size eight, her pre-pregnancy size. The dress was a sleek black number that, in other circumstances, would end right above her knees.
    “That won’t fit,” Janet said with a grimace.
    Celia rolled her eyes. “Give me some credit. Looking isn’t a crime.”
    “Yeah, yeah, okay.”
    Celia grabbed a few shirts. “Be right back.” She locked herself in a dressing room stall. A pumpkin was her reflection in the mirror. Awesome. I’m a walking advertisement for Halloween. Black sweat pants, orange T-shirt. The pinnacle of fashion. Oliver’s invitation for dinner had come at the perfect time.
    *****
    Oliver had to look twice to make sure the woman who met him outside the apartment building was Celia. She looked fifty. Beaten down. Worn out. Her eyes were raccoon-like. Not so different from Oliver’s own eyes.
    But then Celia smiled, and the twenty extra years flew off.
    Oliver shook off the pitter-patter of his heart and indicated his building. He lived only fifteen minutes from his father and stepmother, but Celia had never been inside Oliver’s apartment. Perhaps she had driven by the building once or twice. Whatever. Oliver had no idea.
    “Welcome,” Oliver said. “Nice peeling, huh? Reminds me of a bad sunburn.” His building stood out among the renovated homes on the street.
    “Cafeteria mystery meat color is nice.”
    Oliver chuckled. “Yeah, I couldn’t resist. Well, come on in.”
    Oliver led Celia through the house. He had separate keys for the main entrance and for his own unit. No buzzers, which was why he’d had to meet Celia outside. “I’m on the second floor,” he said.
    They walked up the staircase. The staircase Oliver had fallen down not long ago.
    Once they were in the apartment, Celia surveyed the living room, and Oliver tried to see his place through Celia’s eyes. Was she comparing the apartment and the townhouse? Well, yeah, of course she was. She must think Oliver’s place was shit when stacked next to her own expansive townhouse. Of course, that townhouse was David-bought, David-furnished. Oliver would take his apartment over his father’s townhouse any day.
    Oliver was a naturally tidy person—reasonably tidy—but he had not vacuumed in a while before today. So, he had spent about an hour cleaning, and he hoped his effort was not too obvious. The scent of Pledge lingered, and Oliver tried to remember when he’d stopped straightening up for Lori.
    He couldn’t recall exactly. Maybe six months into their so-called relationship.
    “You get the grand tour by standing right there,” Oliver said, making his voice light. “Well, except for the bathroom.” From where Celia and Oliver stood in the middle of the living room, they could see into the bedroom. A short hallway led from the bedroom to