The walk home was blisteringly cold. The wind ran in currents across Park Avenue. Paul hunched into his turned-up collar, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He shivered uncontrollably and cursed his decision to wear the Barbour. By the time he reached the front door, his eyes stung with tears. Merrill opened it and fell into him, wrapping her small warm body against his. He could tell that she had been waiting for him. She had changed into sweatpants and her red cashmere socks, the ones that were too thick to wear with shoes. Her smile was fleeting and beneath it, her face looked drawn. They hugged. “How are you?” Paul said gently. “I’m sad,” she said, her voiced muffled against his lapel. She sounded like a child. “I can’t believe it. I’ve known him since I was a kid.” “I know you have.” They retreated to the couch. There was an imprint on its cushions; she had been lying there for a while, he thought.
