“You’re coming with me,” she said. “We have twenty years of catching up to do, and I’ve already booked a table at Le Bernardin. I believe I took Mr. Ford’s reservation.”
As we walked down the center aisle, the click of our heels moved in a perfect, synchronized rhythm. We pushed through the double mahogany doors and out into the bright, chaotic light of Manhattan. The air outside was cold, but for the first time in a decade, it didn’t feel heavy.
The structure of my old life had been demolished, but as I looked at the city skyline, I realized I was an artist who finally had a clean canvas. And this time, I was going to be the one to draw the blueprints.
