“Please do.”

“Stop trying to make it look easy.”

“Um . . . is that what I’m doing?” I knew the minute I said the words that it was.

“Do you see men acting like that?” She clucked her tongue. “Maybe it’s changed for your generation. Judging from your colleague’s behavior, I highly doubt it. Most men, they pretend to sweat over every single detail and then tell everyone it was even harder than they made it. If life is rough for you right now, act like it. You tripped back there, but you picked yourself back up and continued on, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

She laughed. “What you should be saying is, ‘Yes, it was hard, but I did it anyway, and now I have the biggest female-generated endowment in the medical school’s history to show for it.”

“You mean—”

“God knows Harvard doesn’t need my money.”

The bit of hope I’d been clinging to blossomed into joy. “Thank you,” I said. “That really means so much to me, and the medical school.”

Nancy smiled at me. “Thank yourself.”

Now Yolanda was arching a penciled eyebrow in disbelief. “You mean to say Weingarten agreed to the endowment.”

“Yes.” I sounded tired. But I was tired. Sanjay had been helping around the house more, but between my grief and confusion and the kids and Cecily and trying to make up for the work I didn’t do after Jenny died, I was still so worn out I could crawl into a ball in Yolanda’s leather lounge chair and wake up next year. “In addition to the scholarship, she’s donating two hundred thousand to the General Fund.” The General Fund was our most important campaign initiative, as donations could be used for almost any nonfacility purpose at the medical school, hospital, or research center. It also happened to be the area where we had the hardest time getting contributions of more than a few hundred dollars; turns out that people willing to part with large sums tend to want a say in where their money goes.

“This was a lucky break, Penelope,” said Yolanda. “What if she hadn’t asked you about the scholarship recipients? That was a great story you spun about Leticia, but if Nancy had quizzed you about how we would publicize the endowment, we would be having a different conversation right now.”

I was ready to defer to her and say I was just glad it had worked out. But just as I opened my mouth, my conversation with Nancy Weingarten popped into my head.

“That was no spin—it was someone’s life I was describing,” I said, careful to make sure my tone was neutral. “And I don’t think it was luck, either. I worked hard, and even though everything didn’t go exactly as planned, it paid off.”

She stared at me. Finally, she shook her head and said, “Let Dean Willis know.”

My legs were shaking a little as I walked back to my desk—I had never stood up to Yolanda like that before. But I was smiling, too. Because I was already thinking about how I would tell Sanjay that maybe there was something to this radical honesty idea.

SEVENTEEN

I came home from work later that week to find Sanjay smiling so wide I could see his molars. He was wearing a nice pair of pants and a button-down that . . . could it be? Yes, it had actually been ironed!

“Did you have a job interview?” I asked, unable to disguise my delight.

His smile immediately wilted, but he quickly recovered. “No, but I’m skipping practice tonight.”

“Okay . . .” I wasn’t sure how band practice had anything to do with his attire.

“I hired a sitter and made reservations at Mario’s,” he explained, referring to our favorite Italian place.

“Oh,” I said, because while this was a nice surprise and certainly more than what I had asked for, I also wished I’d stopped for a double espresso before coming home. It had been a marathon of a day and I was probably going to nod off into my tortellini.

“Oh?” he said.

I attempted to fix my face. “That sounds great—we haven’t been out in ages.”

“It’s been a while,” he said, sounding pacified. “I thought it would be a nice change of pace.”

“It will be. Do you mind if I go change?”

“Of course not. Emma will be here at six forty-five. Our reservation is for seven.”

“Perfect.”

I went upstairs and slipped into a pair of jeans, which I immediately swapped for a skirt. If Sanjay was making an effort, then so would I. It had been months—maybe even nearly a year—since the two of us had gone out alone. Usually we went to Matt and Jenny’s with the kids, because they had enough space that you could almost pretend the shrieking from down the hall was coming from another house.

As I replaced my melted makeup with fresh spackle, it occurred to me that in spite of my exhaustion, I was excited. Dinner alone would give us a chance to connect, like I’d told him I wanted to.

Except after we got to the restaurant and ordered and were looking at each other from across the small table where we’d been seated, it became painfully apparent how rusty we were at the art of adult conversation.

“How’s the band going?” I asked.

He shrugged and took a piece of bread from the basket. “Don’t know. Tonight makes three weeks that I’ve skipped.”

“Really?” I said. How had I not realized that? “Why’s that?”

He had just put an enormous chunk of bread in his mouth and finished chewing before answering. “I just needed a break.”

I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to push him for details or if he was being deliberately evasive. “Okay,” I said.

“How’s work?” he asked.

Riveting chat you’re having, I heard Jenny say.

For once, I was able to curb my instinct to answer her aloud. I’m trying, I thought.

Try harder, she retorted.

“Penny?” asked Sanjay, not realizing I was more engaged in the conversation in my head than the one he and I were having.

I trained my eyes on him. “Work is going pretty well, if you can believe it,” I said. “Do you remember me telling you about Nancy Weingarten?”

He nodded.

“Well, I landed the endowment. It’s the biggest major gift from a woman in the medical school’s history.”

From the way he was beaming, you would have thought it was his victory. Or maybe he was just happy to have something to talk about. “That’s fantastic! Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”

I wasn’t sure. Most likely I’d been so busy with our evening routine that I’d forgotten, so I gave him a roundabout answer. “Well, it didn’t go as smoothly as I would have liked. Yolanda tried to act like I’d screwed up the entire thing instead of making a few minor mistakes, but Nancy told me to stop making everything look easy.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Did she?”

“Why are you giving me that look?”

“No look intended,” he said. “It’s good advice. I hope you’ll take it.”

This implied that I probably wouldn’t. “Hmph,” I said.

Sanjay reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Penny, don’t be like that. I’m really proud of you. Who would have thought back when you got that first development job that you’d practically be running the place seven years later?”

He’d meant it as a compliment, but I could feel my spirits sink. “Certainly not me.” Eager to change the subject, I said, “Any news on the Atlantic piece?”

“I’m still waiting for it to go through another edit. But I’m making headway on the book.”

Over dinner, he told me about how he had outlined the entire proposal and had started thinking through how he would begin the first chapter. I made sure to ask him questions and keep my eyes on him as he answered. But after he had finished telling me about his agent search and then looked at me like he wasn’t sure what to say next, I drained my wine instead of speaking. Why did this have to be so much work? Shouldn’t we—two people who had known each other for the better part of twenty years and had vowed to spend the rest of our natural lives as partners—be able to connect without so much effort, say nothing of a blasted list?

But these things took time. Just as Rome wasn’t built in a day, my marriage would not be salvaged in a single date. I needed to believe that, because the alternative was more than I could bear.

Sanjay must not have shared my angst, because after we got to the garage where we’d parked the car, he put his hand on my thigh and gave it a squeeze. I stared straight ahead, because I knew exactly what that squeeze said: Remember our project ? We’re supposed to be having sex.

Well, yes, we were—but in a cramped sedan? In the middle of a parking garage?

“I had a nice time,” said Sanjay.

“I did, too,” I said. Especially the part where he paid the bill in cash—I hated to be so old-fashioned, but there was something romantic about knowing dinner wasn’t going on our joint credit card.

He leaned over the gearshift to kiss me. His lips were soft but insistent, which was my kind of kissing.

A car, a car, a car, a car! I heard Jenny say. Could you, would you in a car?

I could not, would not, in a car. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about where we were. Granted, it was dark, and no one appeared to be around. One could also argue that these same things made the garage an ideal location for a serial killer to prey on a couple midcoitus.

“I’m sorry,” I said, pulling away from Sanjay. “I’m too anxious. Maybe at home?”

“No problem,” he said.

“You’re disappointed,” I said.

He sighed. “No, I get it.”

“But?”

“But I’m thinking that by the time we write the sitter a check and have a discussion with her about how we should really download one of those money-transfer apps and then peek in on Stevie and Miles and floss and brush away the garlic and Chianti and get into bed, I’m pretty sure neither of us is going to be in the mood.”