DURING OUR TIME in Paris, something new starts happening constantly: Sinclair consistently leaves and coming back late at night. Typically, his leaving and what he does when he’s gone wouldn’t bother me, but it’s clear from the way his face looks drawn and worn when he comes back that whatever he’s doing whenever he leaves for those long periods of time is hard on him. I caught him sitting in the main room of the hotel we were staying in one night, a giant bottle of nearly empty bourbon on the coffee table in front of him and his head in his hands.
“Sinclair,” I called out to him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Are you o—?”
He had gripped my hand harder than he usually did—it hadn’t hurt but the force he used had surprised me—and he pulled me to him, planting his lips against my
