“I made you feel like you weren’t talented,” she said. “I tried to make you think you needed me because I made you legitimate.” “T know that.” “But you’ve always been legitimate.” “T know that now, too,” I told her. “I thought you would call me after you won the Oscar. I thought maybe you would want to show me, you’d want to shove it in my face.” “Did you listen to my speech?” “Of course I did,” she said. “I reached out to you,” I said. I picked up a piece of bread and buttered it. But I put it down immediately, not taking a single bite. “I wasn’t sure,” Celia said. “I mean, I wasn’t sure if you meant me.” “T all but said your name.” “You said ‘she.’” “Precisely.” “I thought maybe you had another she.” I had looked at other women besides Celia. I had pictured myself with other women besides her. But everyone, for what had felt like my whole life, had always been divided into “Celia” and “not Celia.” Every other woman I considered striking up a conversation with might as well have had “not Celia” stamped on her forehead. If I was going to risk my career and everything I loved for a woman, it was going to be her. “There is no she but you,” I told her. Celia listened and closed her eyes. And then she spoke. It was as if she had tried to stop herself and simply couldn’t. “But there were hes.” “This old song and dance,” I said, trying to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “I was with Max. You were clearly with Joan. Did Joan hold a candle to me?” “No,” Celia said. “And Max didn’t hold a candle to you.” “But you're still married to him.” “I’m filing papers. He’s moving out. It’s over.”