I wanted to put a better name to the longing I felt watching him go. It wasn’t tinged with envy or bitterness over my own circumstances. It was that I’d realized, when visiting Max and Sara only weeks ago, that I knew what I wanted—stability, a wife, a family—but now I was so far behind. I’d never been great with change, and it was daunting to face the prospect of altering my expectations about life and my future post-divorce.

I hadn’t realized until now how I’d put off even thinking about what life looked like from here on out and how to make it what I wanted. I’d simply hit pause. For seven months I’d neatly plowed ahead: diving into work, into footie and rowing on the weekend, the occasional evenings out with my mates, Archie and Ian.

But to get what I wanted, I’d need to put myself out there and meet someone.

And now, through the power of suggestion—from Tony, from Max and Will and Bennett, even George—or maybe simply from being in the presence of a hypnotically beautiful and sweet woman, my mind immediately wondered if Ruby could be the type of woman I’d date.

But I didn’t want to move toward Ruby simply because others thought I should, or because I had a space to fill in my life. Of course I found her attractive and—in the private spaces of my mind—could easily imagine having a go.

Could I ever be in a relationship with passion and honesty, with a degree of loyalty I’d never felt from Portia? My loyalty had always been first to her, but hers had never wavered from her parents, leaving me a distant second. It hadn’t struck me as off, but in hindsight I knew it meant we would never have been able to be true partners in our marriage.

In the past year or two I’d come to realize I’d been resigned to Portia as my lot simply because she carried so much of my history with hers. But, despite my hesitation and oft-noted reserve, I was raised in a house of passion, and children, and the most absurd sort of adventure. Though I wasn’t the one to pull the trigger on spontaneity and wildness, I needed it around me in the passive way that we also need air, or warmth.

Ruby’s mischievous face lingered in my thoughts as I took the lift to our floor.

It seemed as though she was placed in front of me at the perfect time. Not necessarily so I could approach her romantically, but so I could gain perspective on how many different types of women were out there—and that they weren’t all like Portia.

The process of splitting up a shared life with Portia into two separate ones was an excruciating, gradual process. First, it was the flat: with almost no discussion, we’d decided it went to her. Next, it was the car: also hers. She kept the dog, the furniture, and a sizable portion of the savings. I let it all go, strikingly unburdened.

Portia was my first kiss, my first love, my first everything. Married at nineteen, I’d believed in staying married despite misery, unfashionable as that view might have been.

It was simply that, one day, our misery reached a point where I could see no point to it.

I couldn’t see her being passionate with me ever again, and for myself as well our lovemaking had long since taken on a sort of mechanical, transactional flavor. There had been no mention of children in years and, to be fair, I was unable to imagine Portia ever loving her children the way my mother had loved us: with enthusiastic kisses planted to our bellies and constant physical reminders of motherly adoration. Now, months away from the divorce, I wondered how I’d ever imagined a life with her: clean, cold, everything in its place.

In the end, our divorce had started over something as innocuous as a rescheduled lunch. I’d received notice of a meeting that would run into the time we were meant to arrive at the restaurant midday. Portia often worked from home, but an hour of flexibility turned out to be too much to ask.

“Do you ever consider my day?” she asked. “Do you ever consider what I put aside to spend time with you?”

I thought back to the romantic holidays she’d canceled, and the anniversary dinners she had missed because she stayed late at a friend’s flat and forgot or, once, extended her girls’ holiday for another week simply because she was having too much fun to come home.

“I endeavor to,” I told her.

“But you fail, Niall. And, honestly, I’m sick of it.”

Being Portia, she needed to have the last word. And in that moment, with a sharp clarity I hadn’t expected, I was fine with that as the last word. I simply wanted out.

“I understand, Portia. You can only do so much.”

She’d startled slightly at the use of her given name; I’d only ever called her “Love,” for years. “That’s just it,” she said wearily. “Niall. I’m swamped. I simply can’t live my life and carry the weight of all this, as well.”