Chapter 7

The diner was called Rosie's, and it was the kind of place that never closed, with cracked red vinyl booths, a long counter lined with chrome stools, and the faint permanent smell of bacon and burnt coffee. At one-thirty in the morning, it was almost empty — a tired waitress leaning against the counter with a crossword puzzle, a truck driver nursing a cup at the far end, a couple of teenagers sharing fries in a booth by the window.

Vivian and Neil took the booth in the corner.

She ordered tea. He ordered coffee. When the waitress brought them, she looked at the two of them for a long moment — the woman in the navy dress with the silver brooch and the red mark on her cheek, the man in the rumpled tuxedo with his bow tie in his pocket — and said nothing, just slid the mugs onto the table and walked away.

Neil wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, staring into the dark liquid.

"The photographer," he said again. "Why that one?"

Vivian took a slow sip of her tea before answering.

"Because the photographs would have been a lie," she said. "They would have shown you a wedding where everyone was happy." She paused. "That wedding never happened."

He was quiet for a long time.

"I knew she was cruel," he said finally. "I told myself it was just- just pressure. For the wedding. But she was always like that. Little things. Making me feel stupid. Making me choose her over everyone else." He looked up at Vivian, and his eyes were wet. "She asked me to stop talking to you at one point."

Vivian set down her cup. "Did she?"

"After we got engaged. She said you talked badly about her, which was a lie, and she said we needed distance." He shook his head. "I didn't stop talking to you. But I- I pulled back. I see that now. I made you defend your place in my life when you should have never had to defend it."

Vivian was quiet for a moment, letting the words sit.

"When did you know?" she asked. "That it was over?"

He took a long drink of his coffee, wincing at the bitterness.