Vancouver.
San Francisco.
New York.
A week in Portugal.
We hosted Thanksgiving twice.
We bought furniture we could finally afford.
We talked loosely about children but never reached the point of trying.
Petra’s career was growing quickly, and mine was too.
We thought we had time.
Damon existed around the edges of our life.
A name.
An old chapter.
For the first eighteen months after the wedding, he mattered so little that I sometimes forgot Petra still had occasional contact with him.
Then Damon moved to Fremont.
He had spent several years working for a landscaping company and finally started his own outdoor design business.
Damon Reyes Landscape & Outdoor.
The first thing that brought them back into regular contact was work.
One of Petra’s clients wanted a large backyard renovation.
Terracing.
Outdoor kitchen.
Native plants.
Stonework.
Petra’s firm handled the interior remodel but needed a landscape contractor.
Someone suggested Damon.
Petra told me over dinner.
“My ex-husband may end up working on the Ellison project.”
I looked up from my pasta.
“That’s awkward.”
She laughed.
“Not really.”
“You sure?”
“We’re adults.”
“I know. Still.”
“He’s good.”
“At landscaping?”
“Yes.”
“Good for him.”
She watched me for a second.
“You don’t care?”
“Should I?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t.”
And at the time, I meant it.
The project lasted four months.
Petra and Damon saw each other professionally.
Site visits.
Client meetings.
Material discussions.
Then professional contact became lunch.
Lunch became friendship.
Again, nothing changed all at once.
If Petra had come home one evening and said, “I’m going to spend most Saturdays at my ex-husband’s house now,” I would have reacted immediately.
But life rarely announces transitions that clearly.
It was one coffee.
One client lunch.
One text.
One favor.
Then repetition.
By the following fall, they were having lunch almost every week.
Petra always told me.
That mattered.
At least I thought it did.
“Lunch with Damon tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Damon wants my opinion on a patio project.”
“Sure.”
“I’m stopping by Fremont Saturday morning. He redid his kitchen and wants me to look at the finishes.”
“All right.”
Nothing was hidden.
That became part of the argument I later made against my own instincts.
If something inappropriate were happening, why would she tell me?
So I stayed calm.
November was the first time it interfered directly with us.
My colleague Nadia Park had invited us to her birthday dinner.
Nadia and I had worked together for seven years.
She had been at our wedding.
Petra liked her.
The plan had been on our calendar for almost a month.
Saturday afternoon, Petra went to Damon’s place to help him choose tile for a small guest bathroom renovation.
She said she would be home by five.
At six fifteen, she texted.
Running late. Be home soon.
At six forty-five, she walked in.
We needed to leave by seven.
She took off her shoes.
“I’m exhausted.”
I was already dressed.
“What?”
“I’ve been out all day.”
“We have Nadia’s dinner.”
“I know.”
“You forgot?”
“No.”
She rubbed her forehead.
“I just don’t think I can do another four hours of people.”
I stared at her.