She hung up. He hit *69 and got a number in Brentwood. There was no answer. He dialed a dozen times but apparently they had gone to bed.

Them in bed together. The image was a curse he was never to be free of again. How many nights after that night did he want to take a gun and blow that picture right out of his brain?

She did not call the next day. What did it matter? He was never going to see her again as long as he lived. Nevertheless, the day after that, at five in the morning, he drove to her house, saw her car was parked out front. Using a side gate to get in the backyard, he stepped to the sliding glass door attached to her bedroom. Peering inside, he saw her roll over in bed and sit up. She had on the pink pajamas he had bought her the previous Christmas. She let him inside and they sat on her bed together and she wept.

“I’m sorry, Matt. I’m so sorry.”

She told him her story. She had been with David six years before she met him and even when it had ended it had not really ended. He knew that, she said. He knew she was still obsessing on the guy. Actually, Matt did not know that but he let it pass.

She had seen David four times in the last two years, for a week each time. Matt remembered the occasions. They were supposed to be the times she had gone to visit her relatives in Colombia. She had called during those trips, every night, to see how he was doing. Matt asked if she had slept with David during each trip. Stupid question. Yes, she said. But each time she had sworn to herself she wasn’t going back to David. She had cared for him, Matt. She had wanted to make it work with him.

Had cared. Had wanted to make it work.

It was hard to miss her choice of tense.

“How long has he been here this time?” he asked.

“A month. He catted—I told him I wouldn’t see him. But he kept calling and I finally gave in.”

The other trips were a while ago. Maybe he could forget, maybe he could forgive. “Have you slept with him in the last month?” he asked.

She took a long time to answer. “Yes.”

His turn to cry. He had never wept in front of someone as an adult. He honestly felt like he would die. She kept squeezing his hand and saying she was sorry but somehow it did not help.

“Are you going to see him again?” he asked pitifully.

She hesitated. “I’m not sure. After what happened the other night, he doesn’t trust me anymore.”

“So you’re over him? It’s done?”

She looked away. “I’m still conflicted.”

“What does that mean?”