“I’ll try.”
He was teaching them to stop looking at themselves as if they were the problem.
“No.” He opened the door. “Go scared.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You don’t have to stop being afraid before you walk into the building.”
Diane nodded.
Then she left.
The door closed.
Marco and I were alone.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
I looked around the room one more time.
“You don’t have to stop being afraid before you walk into the building.”
“When…” I demanded, “…were you planning to tell your wife the truth?”
Marco looked down. “Gigi…”
“What is this place?”
Marco leaned against his desk.
“A return-to-work studio.”
“For women?”
“Mostly.”
“Why?”
He started to speak, but I held up a hand.
“What is this place?”
“No. First, tell me why every woman online talks about you like you’re some secret.”
The color just completely drained from his face.
“Gigi.”
“One said her husband doesn’t know she comes here, Marco”
“Her husband thinks she’s too old to work,” he said.
I went still.
“One said her husband doesn’t know she comes here, Marco”
“Another is rebuilding after a divorce. Another hasn’t told her family she’s applying anywhere because she’s terrified she’ll fail.”
I stared at him.
“Their stories weren’t yours to tell me.”
Marco nodded. “No.”
“But yours was,” I muttered.
That landed.
He looked away.
I stepped closer.
“Their stories weren’t yours to tell me.”
“I’ve spent three years believing my husband worked at a hospital.”
“I consult with one,” he acknowledged. “Their social-work department refers women here when they’re trying to return to work after years of caregiving.”
“That’s not what I believed, Marco.”
“I know.”
“Do I?”
He looked at me.
“I’ve spent three years believing my husband worked at a hospital.”
I pointed toward the office.
“I had to book an appointment under my maiden name to find out what my own husband does all day.”
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Marco’s face dropped.
That finally hurt him.
Good.
Because I was done pretending this was just a misunderstanding.
Then my eyes landed on something beside his computer.
That finally hurt him.
A small plastic token.
Blue.
Worn smooth.
I’d seen it before.
It used to sit in a bowl at home with loose change.
“What is that?”
Marco followed my gaze.
He blinked, caught off guard.
He picked up the token.
For the first time since I’d walked in, he looked frightened.
And exposed.
“What is that?”
“Gigi…”
I folded my arms.
“What?”
He turned the little token between his fingers.
“This is why I started all of it.”
Marco rolled the token across his knuckles.
I waited.
