Page 98 of Dial F for Finance

Jenna is everywhere. In my house. In my phone. In the family group chat where we’re all learning to sign, and she’s across the dinner table practicing with me almost every night.

I’ve never been happier in my life.

“This isn’t some sort of surprise party where we walk in and there’s a massive banner and a thousand people, right?” Jenna asks, holding a bakery box in her hands as we ascend in the private elevator that opens directly into Bennett and Layla’s penthouse. It’s Saturday night and we’ve been invited over for tacos along with the rest of the group. It’s the first group gathering we’ve had since news of our marriage broke, and the first since Bennett and Layla’s wedding.

“They wouldn’t do that. I mean, I would definitely do that, but our friends would not. This is just good food and friends,” I say, shifting the box out of her hands and pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “If at any time it stops being that, I promise to take you straight home and make you feel better by going down on you until I get a cramp in my tongue.”

“You’re going to give yourself a cramp in your tongue? That’s your sales pitch?” Jenna asks, but she’s fighting a smile.

“I like to suffer for my art,” I say, and her smile wins, taking over her mouth.

She looks up at me. “I’m holding you to that. If things get weird, there will be a post-action debrief and assigned improvement objectives.”

“Are you threatening to performance review my oral skills?”

The elevator pings. “That would be inappropriate to discuss in front of our hosts. Also: yes.”

The doors part and the sound of a party at full burn spills out: music, laughter, someone (Layla, obviously) cackling at maximum amplitude. The kind of social furnace Jenna would normally circle without ever stepping into the heat. I squeeze her hand as we step into the space.

“Look who finally arrived,” Layla booms, materializing in black pants and a powder-pink blouse. Audrey and Serena flank her, both holding matching tequila sodas. The taco bar is visible through the open-plan kitchen, and somewhere in the distance, Bennett and Caleb are conducting what looks like a brisk review of microbrew options. Logan is standing by the stereo system going through a stack of old vinyl.

I used to know this penthouse when it was gray. Bennett’s museum years—glass and order, furniture squared to the skyline, a home like a term sheet. Now Layla’s canvases hang where the joyless abstracts used to be, and there’s a paint-stained cardigan on the leather couch. Warmth radiates from every corner—throw pillows with unruly fringe, mismatched plates, a fridge covered in random notes and lists and sarcastic magnets. It feels like a home before I’ve even made it to the kitchen.

Layla engulfs Jenna in a hug and her arms pin my wife’s at her sides. Jenna tolerates it, returning the greeting like she’s been pre-briefed on the correct duration and pressure of reciprocal hug units. Serena and Audrey circle in, taking the box of pastries from me and peeling the lid open. Logan gives us a distracted wave from the turntable, lifting the needle and setting it down again with a gentle click.

Nora and David arrive right behind us. Michaela, I’m informed, is at a sleepover, and has left behind a notarized list of questions for Jenna and me that Nora administers verbatim over dinner. Question one: Did you know you loved him when he did jazzy Mac, or in spite of it?

“In spite of it,” Jenna says. “Emphatically.”

I clutch my chest. “All I’m hearing is she loved me.”

Jenna rolls her eyes. “Don’t get too cocky, Cruz. I can go back to emphatically hating you.”

I grin and waggle my eyebrows. “I know.”

We all eat and drink, and I continue to watch Jenna navigate the couple-shaped attention, answering questions smoothly instead of deflecting or hiding from them. The girls drag her into the kitchen while they refill their glasses, and even though she still checks around her to map her exits, her shoulders aren’t as stiff and she seems to be genuinely enjoying herself.

Caleb materializes beside me, two beers already open. “You’re staring,” he says, not looking at what I’m looking at.

“I’m married to her. I’m allowed.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He tips his chin toward where Layla has Jenna by the elbow now, steering her toward the couch. “She’s good at this. Better than I expected.”

“Better?”

“She used to leave rooms when the personal questions started.” He takes a long pull from his bottle. “Now she’s answering questions about jazzy Mac.”

I feel the grin happen before I can stop it. “She hated that video.”

“Everyone hated that video. You looked like a cruise director having a medical event.”

“I looked confident.”

“You looked like you were being electrocuted through jazz hands.”

Across the room, Jenna is drinking wine and reading through Michaela’s list of questions with her brow furrowed. Layla points to the paper and says something that makes her laugh, head tipped back, hand rising to cover her mouth like the sound surprised her.

Glorious.