AUDEN SMOOTHED her hands over the black fabric of her dress one final time, feeling the silk slip beneath her palms. The dress was new — or rather, new to her again. She'd bought it three years ago for a premiere, worn it once, then relegated it to the back of her wardrobe behind cardigans and practical blouses. Tonight, it felt like armor. Or perhaps a costume.

"Fanny, Catherine's bedtime is eight sharp," she said, catching her reflection in the hallway mirror as she passed. Her auburn hair fell in soft curls around her shoulders, only after she spent an hour with the curling iron, muscle memory guiding her hands through a routine she'd abandoned months ago. The woman looking back at her seemed familiar yet foreign, like glimpsing an old friend in a crowd.

Her babysitter stood in the threshold of the kitchen, poised against the frame that led out to their family room where Catherine was sitting. Fanny was gazing down at her phone, thumbs moving wildly.

"She can have one biscuit after dinner," Auden told her as she approached the young woman, "but only if she finishes her vegetables."

"Got it." Fanny looked up briefly from her phone, taking in Auden's appearance with the casual assessment of someone who'd seen her mostly in yoga pants and oversized jumpers. "Same as always, Mrs. Murphy."

Auden paused, her hand hovering over her keys, which had somehow gotten stashed in the fruit bowl on her kitchen counter, most likely her the haste of school pickup and getting ready.

Mrs. Murphy.

The name felt like wearing someone else's clothes — technically correct but somehow wrong. Though Auden had never legally changed her last name after she first got married, there had been a time in her life where she found herself unphased by the assumption that she had. In fact, she often welcomed the association, as it served a comforting reminder that her life with her husband was real.

But that was a long time ago. A period that, somehow, felt like a different life entirely.

And yet, she never corrected Fanny. Not once, even when they had hired her for the first time almost two and half years ago.

She tried not to read into it.

"Right," Auden breathed, clutching her keys. "Well, I've left money on the counter for takeaway if you'd rather not cook what's in the fridge."

From the sitting room came the familiar sounds of Catherine's favorite cartoon, animated voices singing about friendship and adventure, punctuated by Catherine's occasional giggle. Auden could see her daughter's dark head just visible over the back of the cream couch, her small body tucked into the corner with her favorite blanket, the one with tiny stars that Auden had bought when Catherine was two and refused to sleep without. Seven years old and still so small, still so trusting that Mommy would always come home.

So unaware that there had been a time when she almost didn't.

"I'm going now, Kittie," Auden called out, her voice catching slightly on the endearment.

"Bye, Mummy!" Catherine's voice floated back, distracted but warm, already absorbed back into her cartoon world where problems were solved in twenty-two minutes and everyone lived happily ever after.

If only life were that simple.

With a sigh, Auden moved to the front door, shucking on her leather coat from the hook by the door. It was the long camel-colored coat she'd splurged on two winters ago, back when splurging felt justified rather than reckless. She paused with her hand on the door handle, listening to the sounds of her house: the cartoon's cheerful music, Fanny's fingers tapping against her phone screen, the gentle hum of the dishwasher finishing its cycle.

Home. When had it started feeling like a place she was leaving rather than a place she was living?

She knew the answer to this question instantly. Because she could still smell his scent, could still find traces of him at in every shadowed corner. Her home would never feel like a completed puzzle without the main piece in the center.

Enough, Auden told herself. Stop stalling.

In one swift movement, she opened the door. "I'll be back by ten. Call if you need anything."

She stepped into the cool spring air and made her way to the car, her heels — the black pointed-toe ones that used to be her go-to for important occasions — clicking against the pavement gently. She slid into the driver's seat of her silver Audi, settling into the fabric interior. It was a compromise car, practical enough for school runs but elegant enough for the life she'd thought she was building when she purchased it.

Auden adjusted the rearview mirror, turning it just slightly to the left. The woman looking back at her wore deep red lipstick, a shade called "Confident" that had seemed aspirational when she'd bought it six months ago and never brought herself to wear.

Tonight, she decided, she would live up to the name.

The drive into Dublin's city center usually irritated her. It was the suburban traffic that crawled through Blackrock and Donnybrook, the endless roundabouts that seemed designed to trap you in an endless loop of middle-class domesticity, the way everyone seemed to drive just a bit too slowly, as if they were all reluctant to arrive at their destinations, that usually made her want to scream.

But tonight, she found herself humming along to the radio, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel in time with a jazz song she didn't recognize but somehow knew. She switched stations twice, settling on something with a saxophone that made her think of old movies and women who wore silk scarves and met mysterious men in dimly lit bars.

She caught the setting sun in her mirrors, the sky painted in soft oranges and pinks, and the familiar landmarks of her commute — a church spire peaking behind Catherine's primary school, the bridge over the Dodder, the row of Georgian houses that always made her think of Jane Austen novels — looked different in this light. Romantic, almost. Like a city she might choose to live in rather than one she'd simply ended up in because she was running away almost ten years ago.

In the downtown centre, she found parking on a narrow side street a few blocks from the restaurant, Normally, it was the kind of spot she'd consider too far to walk in heels. But Auden was in no rush, and the evening was too nice to pass up entirely. The May air carried the scent of wood smoke and fresh leaves, and somewhere nearby, someone was cooking with garlic and herbs. She was instantly reminded of her first few weeks in Dublin, when she once lived in a cramped studio apartment with nothing but her endless thoughts and an overly clingy cat.

As she turned off the engine, she flipped down the visor and studied her face in the small mirror. The foundation looked good — she'd applied it with careful precision earlier that morning but she reached for her compact anyway, pressing the sponge against her forehead where the day's stress had left a slight shine, then along her nose and chin. The ritual was soothing, familiar. It reminded her of getting ready for her first day working for Charles, for going out to pubs with Brigid, the life she'd lived before Catherine, before the suburbs, before everything had become so complicated.

Was she nervous? She examined her face for signs — the slight tremor in her hands, the way her pupils looked a bit too large, the unconscious way she pressed her lips together to even out her lipstick. Yes, she was nervous. But it was a good nervousness, the kind that made you feel alive rather than anxious.

Outside, the cobblestones were uneven beneath her heels, and she pulled her coat tighter, fastening the belt with deliberate care. The leather felt supple and expensive against her fingers — just another reminder of when she'd had reasons to buy things like this, when her wardrobe had been an investment rather than an afterthought. Spring in Dublin had a particular bite to it, but again, she was in no rush. So, she walked slowly, savoring the clip of her heels against the stones, the way the streetlights were just beginning to flicker on, casting everything in a golden glow that made even the litter-strewn corners look soft and fuzzy.

Auden checked her watch as she walked. Six o'clock exactly.

Instead of heading straight to the restaurant, she paused beside a Victorian lamppost and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. The habit had returned this year, after seven years of abstinence that had started the moment she'd seen those two pink lines on the pregnancy test. She'd been so proud of herself then, so certain that motherhood would transform her into someone better, someone who made better choices. Recent months had brought back the old urges, the old comforts.

She lit one now, inhaling slowly, watching the smoke curl up into the darkening sky. The first drag made her dizzy — a reminder that her body wasn't used to this anymore, that she was borrowing this small rebellion from an earlier version of herself.

Auden knew was probably already inside, had probably been there for fifteen minutes, sitting quietly at whatever table he'd managed to secure at this impossible-to-book restaurant. This, of course, would be his way of showing that he was trying to be more attentive.

See? he would say with a playful smile on his face. I arrived right on time, just like I promised.

You made a lot of promises, Auden would reply. That doesn't mean anything anymore.

He would wait. She could be two hours late, and he would still be sitting there, watching the door. Because even though punctuality had never been his strong suit, patience was. That had never changed.

He'd have ordered wine — her favorite Sancerre, the one she'd discovered on one of their trips to France when they'd been foolish and certain that love was enough to sustain them through anything. Maybe appetizers too, the way he used to when they'd first started dating, when he'd wanted to impress her with his sophistication, his ability to pay for anything she ever wanted.

Did he still want to impress her? The thought made her stomach flutter in a way that felt both familiar and strange.

She dropped the cigarette and crushed it under her heel, the ember dying against the old stone with a small hiss. Then she fished in her purse for mints — the same brand she'd carried for years, a small consistency in a life that had become increasingly unpredictable. Two in her mouth, the sharp peppermint masking the tobacco and the taste of her own nervousness.

The final block to the restaurant felt both endless and too short. With each step, she felt herself transforming back into someone she'd almost forgotten — the woman who never knew how to enter a room, who simultaneously understood the power of a perfectly timed smile because it was easier to pretend than to unload. That same woman who'd caught the attention of one of Ireland's most celebrated actors and somehow convinced him to marry her, with all of her baggage.

Auden came up to the restaurant. The place was small but elegant. The windows were deliberately understated, revealing only a glimpse of warm lighting and carefully arranged tables. She recognized the type immediately: the sort of restaurant that appeared in magazine articles about "hidden gems" and "best-kept secrets," though of course everyone who mattered knew about it. She pushed through the heavy door, feeling the warmth envelop her like an embrace, and paused to let her eyes adjust to the dimmer interior.

The scent hit her first. It was rosemary and wine, expensive perfume and the particular smell of well kept restaurants, that mixture of ambition and indulgence that made you feel like you were part of something special, when really, you weren't. The maître d' began to approach, his professional smile already forming, but she was already scanning the room.

She spotted him before the maître d' could speak.

He was sitting at a corner table, partially hidden behind a column but still visible to her. His profile was sharp against the golden light of the restaurant. Even from across the room, she could see the details: fresh haircut, definitely, the gray at his temples more pronounced than she remembered it when she last saw him three days earlier. It suited him, made him look distinguished rather than old. He wore a navy suit jacket over a crisp white shirt, no tie — that sort of effortless elegance that had always made her slightly envious.

Two glasses sat on the table — one full but untouched; the other empty, the glass sparkling in her direction as if inviting her forward to join. A basket of bread sat between them, she knew neither of them would touch it.

His eyes were cast down, reading something on his phone, his face serious, concentrated.

Working, probably.

Even here, even now.

She glanced away, her head turning slightly, back to the door. For a split second, she considered leaving. She could make up some excuse about Catherine being difficult. He would understand. Maybe even offer to come over and help.

And Auden would let him, because it was easier to confront him that way.

So often, I find that couple's consume themselves with their children, she heard Dr. Bergman's voice in her head. Then, when they're gone, you realize that you've let them become the only thing keeping the relationship tethered. You no longer remember who your partner is.

Auden turned her head back around.

Their eyes met across the room — his blue ones finding hers with the same intensity that had undone her almost a decade ago, that had made her forget every sensible thing she'd ever known about love and marriage and the particular dangers of falling for someone whose job was to make people believe in things that weren't real.

The recognition was instant, electric. He stood as she approached, his movements careful and practiced, with the same kind of grace that came from years of being watched, of knowing that every gesture would be analyzed and remembered.

Especially by her.

Despite the history, her stomach churned in a way that made this feel like a first date. This was the man she'd agreed to meet for dinner, though she still couldn't quite remember why she'd said yes when he'd called about it three weeks ago, his voice careful and hopeful in a way that had made her chest tight. There had been something almost timid in how he'd asked, as if he were sixteen again instead of fifty-three, as if the years between them hadn't happened at all.

But it wasn't a first date. On their first date, she had been twenty-eight. And now, she was thirty-seven. Nine years had passed since that first dinner, nine years that included a wedding, a mortgage, fights about money and their children and whose turn it was to take out the garbage. Nine years that had led to explosive arguments, separate apartments, and co-parenting. It had led to endless hours of marriage counseling.

It had led to this.

This wasn't a first date. But it felt like one, complete with the terrible uncertainty of not knowing how the evening would end, whether they'd shake hands awkwardly at her car or he'd come home and fit back into her life as if he'd never left. She didn't know which possibility scared her more.

The man who stood at that table, anxiously eyeing her from across the room, was her husband. Though in reality, she'd been separated from him for one year, four months, and sixteen days.

Yes, she'd been counting.

Auden felt herself square her shoulders, and as she approached, her earlier apprehension melted just as quick as it has came.

"You look beautiful," he said, his voice carrying that familiar soft Cork lilt that still made something flutter in her chest despite everything. The words sounded genuine, surprised, as if he'd forgotten what she looked like when she tried.

Her eyes remained on the man who had somehow managed to consume every part of her life.

"Hi, Cillian," she replied, settling into the chair across from him. His name felt strange in her mouth — it was too formal and too intimate at the same time. When had she stopped saying it casually? When had it become something she had to think about?

Cillian was quick to pour her a glass of wine.

The stem felt cool and familiar against her palm as she lifted it, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The restaurant continued around them — other couples leaning across tables, the soft clink of cutlery against china, the murmur of conversations that had nothing to do with them. But in their corner, surrounded by the debris of their shared past, time seemed to slow.

She took a sip of the Sancerre — perfect, of course, exactly the right temperature — and wondered what they were supposed to say to each other now.