“Why? For old time’s sake?” I said it lightly, not knowing how to respond. This was the first time Griffin had ever turned me down. I was starting to feel a surge of panic and hurt, something I was unaccustomed to. I wondered if I had not had to wrangle out of that wretched girdle would we, like our counterparts in the alternate universe, be exchanging intimacies and musings about the wedding or the spectacular view from my room? I silently cursed the notion of Spanx interruptus sex.

“We’re too old. You’ve moved on with Elliott. And I have Alex,” he said. I looked at him wounded. My anger rising.

“So we’re just going to move on with the vowels in our life?” I injected these words with forced lightheartedness.

“Huh?” he asked. Not even my conversation was working anymore.

“Alex, Elliott—A, E.” I hadn’t realized he and Alex were that serious. “You’re rejecting me?”

“Yes, I think it’s for the best. I’m with Alex. You’re with Elliott.” I was standing there nearly bare in front of him. Trembling, I grabbed his T-shirt and went back into the bathroom.

“You okay?” he had the nerve to ask. I would never be okay. In that moment, I realized I had never fully accepted that Griffin and I would never be together again. I wanted him to choose me. I loved Elliott, but my heart’s compass had never freed itself from the gravitational pull of Griffin. But Elliott chose me, and Griffin rejected me. I began to cry.

Looking into the mirror, I saw my tears mixed with mascara, staining my face in the universal symbol of rejection and unrequited love. I turned the water on until I pulled myself together and could breathe again. I cleaned my face, threw on his T-shirt, and opened the door as if the whole of my being had not just been dismantled.

I walked over to the bed. He leaned over and pecked my cheek goodnight, like well-acquainted friends. It pissed me off.

When I was certain nothing else was going to happen, I pulled back the sheets. That’s when I noticed it. It was so un-Griffin-like. I studied it. It was soft and unobtrusive. He made no attempt to move my hand from his hipbone.

“You have a tattoo?” My voice was so calm it fooled even me. “Henry told me about his tattoo when we were painting your condo. Why would you even get a tattoo? When have you ever listened to Henry about such things?”

“It seemed like a good idea. To get something important to me.”

“What does your tattoo even mean to you?” I traced the letters like braille, B-R-E-A-T-H-E. Breathe.