His voice becomes strained, and he nudges at his side salad with his fork. Ming kicks me under the table. Jane clears his throat, sitting straighter in his chair. “At least I know it was an error of fancy on my side, and it has done no harm to anyone other than myself.”

“Really?” I say. “Because the only thing that’s keeping me from wanting to throttle him is the prospect that he’s miserable, too.” Ming raises her glass in solidarity.

Jane purses his lips. “It’s not as though he meant to hurt me.”

I scowl. Usually, Jane’s insistence on universal goodwill is endearing. On this occasion, I cannot abide it. “He may not have meant to hurt you, but he still did. I’m holding it against him.”

Jane’s neutral expression wavers, and I hate myself for letting my pettiness show, even if it’s in his defense.

I settle into my seat with an overwrought huff. “And I’m going to end up saying something shitty about him and then you’ll be offended that I’ve spoken ill of someone you’re determined not to hate because you’re a goddamn angel and none of us deserve you, so you should probably tell me to shut up while you can.”

Ming chuckles. Jane smiles, and it’s the first real smile I’ve seen from him since last Tuesday.

“I love you,” he reminds me. I blow him a kiss.

Jane is teaching a piano lesson in Chelsea after lunch, and we part ways outside the restaurant. Ming links arms with me as we watch Jane’s retreating form. He’s walking tall, but his stride has none of its usual pep. “You believe all that ‘forget him’ business?”

“I believe it’s what he wants, but he’s still watching the Discovery Channel. It isn’t like what happened with Marcus,” I assure her, and we turn to stroll toward the subway. “I’m not worried or anything. He’s . . . disappointed?” It seems like the closest fit but doesn’t quite cover the scene I’ve been coming home to. “Disappointed and hurt.”

Ming shakes her head. “So shitty. And weird. Charles didn’t seem the type to bail.”

“I know, right?”

She slows to a halt, and we step aside to let other pedestrians pass. “You didn’t tell Jane what I said about them, did you? That he needed to be careful about how excited he was?”

“God, no! That would hardly help.”

“Good. I . . .” She grits her teeth. “I feel guilty suggesting that Jane might be even partially responsible for this, but if Charles got wind of the sugar-daddy bullshit—”