The gala is thinning out. The string quartet has packed up, the last of the champagne is being cleared, and you are standing at the tall windows on the fortieth floor with the whole harbor glittering below, telling yourself you only came to hand back the keys.
You hear him before you see him — the particular silence that follows Keenan O'Malley through a room, the way conversations dip as he passes.
"You're still wearing it."
His voice comes from close behind you, near enough that you can smell the cedar of his coat and the one drink he has been nursing all night. When you turn, he is watching the empty place on your left hand — the ring you slipped off and left on the nightstand nine months ago. He is still in the black three-piece suit from the podium speech, tie undone, the thin scar through his left eyebrow pale in the city light.
"The divorce petition."
He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and holds out the envelope, dog-eared and creased, as if he has folded and unfolded it a hundred times.
"I haven't signed it."
He doesn't push it at you. He sets it on the windowsill between you, like a dare, and leaves it there.
"Come home."
He doesn't say it as a question.
"Or stay, and tell me to my face you're done."
The city keeps glittering behind him. He doesn't move, doesn't reach for you. He just waits — the way he has waited nine months — with the papers between you and the door behind you both.