Elliott's birthday fell on a Thursday that year.
And despite everything — despite the distance between us lately, despite the exhaustion, despite the quiet loneliness that had slowly started settling into the corners of our marriage — I still wanted to give him something meaningful.
Something that reminded us who we used to be.
So I planned everything carefully.
I bought first-class tickets to Paris.
Paris — where we'd met all those years ago when we were barely more than students pretending to be adults. I'd been studying economics abroad while Elliott attended one of those elite French culinary programs where everyone smoked cigarettes dramatically and acted like butter was a religious experience.
Back then, everything about us had felt easy.
Romantic.
Hungry.
Like life was permanently beginning.
I wanted us to find that version of ourselves again.
Even if only for a week.
I arranged for one of Elliott's favorite restaurants to cater dinner at the townhouse instead of dragging him out after work. A few close friends came over. Wine was opened. Music played softly through the speakers.
And somehow Martin became part of the entire thing naturally.
By then he'd already settled into the rhythm of the house in a way that no longer felt temporary.
Earlier that afternoon, he and I had spent nearly three hours baking a birthday cake together while he loudly complained about American buttercream being "culinarily dishonest."
"You people use too much sugar to avoid confronting emotional truth," he announced while aggressively whisking frosting.
"That may be the most French-Canadian sentence ever spoken."
"I contain multitudes."
By the time evening arrived, the whole townhouse smelled like vanilla and red wine and roasted garlic.
For the first time in months, the place actually felt alive.
Then around seven-thirty, the front door finally opened.
Elliott stepped inside looking exhausted enough to physically collapse.
The second everyone yelled "Surprise!" he visibly startled before forcing a tired smile onto his face.
"Oh wow," he said, blinking at all of us. "Thank you, guys."
And then, almost immediately:
"Jesus Christ, I'm exhausted."
Typical.
So unbelievably typical.
I watched him move through the party shaking hands, hugging people distractedly, thanking everyone while still mentally somewhere else entirely.
Like part of him never actually came home anymore.
Still, the night went relatively well.
People drank wine.
Martin somehow ended up in a twenty-minute argument with one of Elliott's sous chefs about whether modern art was "structurally pretentious."
And eventually, after dinner, I decided it was finally time.
I handed Elliott the envelope.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Open it."
He did.
And for one brief second, I saw genuine surprise cross his face.
"Paris?"
I smiled immediately.
"One week."
He looked back down at the tickets.
"First class?"
"You only turn forty once."
For a moment, I honestly thought he might be happy.
Really happy.
Then I watched the expression slowly change on his face.
Not excitement.
Stress.
My stomach tightened instantly.
"Jonathan," he said carefully, "I can't go to Paris."
The room around us suddenly felt quieter.
"What?"
"I mean, I'd love to, obviously, but this Napa project is becoming insane already."
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
"I actually signed a lease on a small apartment up there this week."
I stared at him.
"You what?"
"It just makes more sense than constantly commuting from the city."
I felt something sharp twist in my chest.
"When exactly were you planning to tell me about your secret apartment?" I asked quietly. "In the company newsletter?"
"Jonathan, come on."
"No, seriously."
People around us were beginning to notice the shift in tone now.
"These tickets were six thousand dollars each."
"I didn't ask you to spend that kind of money."
The words landed harder than I think he intended them to.
I stared at him in disbelief.
Then finally:
"So that's it? You're just not going?"
Elliott sighed tiredly.
"Can you change the name on the ticket?"
I blinked.
"What?"
"Take Martin."
I actually laughed once because the alternative was probably crying in front of everyone.
"Elliott," I said carefully, "it's one thing to send me to Carmel with him."
Martin visibly froze nearby.
"It is another thing entirely to send me to Paris. The city where we met. The actual city of love."
Elliott looked exhausted already by the conversation itself.
"Honey," he said quietly, "once this restaurant opens, I'll be lucky if I can make a trip to San Jose."
Something inside me just... deflated.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just slowly.
Like air leaving something that had already been punctured a long time ago.
I excused myself from the party before anyone could see my face properly and locked myself in the downstairs bathroom.
For several minutes, I just stood there staring at the sink trying not to cry like a teenager over a marriage that was apparently dissolving in slow motion.
But eventually the tears came anyway.
Quiet.
Humiliating.
Exhausted.
A soft knock sounded against the door.
"Jonathan?"
Martin.
I wiped quickly at my face before opening it halfway.
He stood there awkwardly holding two glasses of champagne he'd clearly grabbed as emotional support beverages.
For a second neither of us spoke.
Then softly, carefully, he said:
"I know I'm probably not worth a six-thousand-dollar plane ticket."
I let out a weak laugh despite myself.
"And I definitely can't reimburse you," he continued, "because I'm essentially one missed paycheck away from becoming a decorative street musician."
That got another laugh out of me.
"But..." he said more gently now, "if you still want to go, I'll go with you."
I looked at him quietly.
"I can even get my own hotel room if that makes it less weird."
Something about the way he said it — kind, sincere, uncomplicated — hurt almost more than Elliott canceling.
Because Martin was trying.
And Elliott wasn't anymore.
That realization settled somewhere deep in my chest before I could stop it.
I leaned back against the bathroom counter and closed my eyes briefly.
Maybe there was no fixing this.
Maybe there hadn't been for a while.
But maybe a week away from San Francisco — from work, from disappointment, from the strange silence that had settled over my marriage — might help me figure out what was left.
Or what wasn't.