But as he moves away, I don’t feel perfect, don’t feel even close to perfect. There’s so much about marriage I miss. So much about the life I knew, the life I loved. If I hadn’t found those e-mails between Daniel and Melinda, would we still be married today? If I hadn’t known he’d been unfaithful, would our lives be the same?

As my main course is served, night has fallen and it’s darker. Far offshore I can see the moving lights of freighters and cruise ships sailing past.

The rising moon dances on the water, and the voices of the other diners blend with the dull roar of the ocean, the break of waves against sand, the music coming from the hotel bar next door.

The wind kicks up and the breeze makes the torches whisper and flame, each torch blowing, flickering in a different direction; light plays everywhere, on the dinner tables, on the beach, on the water.

I return to my room. It’s only eight here, but it’s eleven at home. I’m tired, exhausted, but can’t seem to fall asleep. Too many thoughts. Too many emotions. Too much on my mind.

After turning the light back on, I grab the TV remote and flick through the pay-per-view movies until I find something light, easy to watch, a film for the preteen set. The romantic comedy is predictable and sweet, like pink cotton candy, and as soon as it ends I fall asleep because I don’t want to think, and right now I think I’d love to be loved again someday.

I wake up close to five, and it’s pitch dark out. I splash water on my face, put on my running shoes. I don’t know my way around, but I figure if I stick to the main road, which seems to be Kalakaua, I won’t get lost.

There are a few other early morning runners like me, people who haven’t adjusted to the time change, and I run until the designer shops and storefronts disappear and the street curves along a park and gives unobstructed views of the ocean. When the street begins to creep uphill, I stop, stretch, and jog slowly back.

It’s hot out and humid. Far more humid than I’m used to in Seattle, and I’m sweating profusely as I approach the hotel. I grew up in Spokane, where summers are long and hot, but I’ve been on the other side of the mountains far too long and can barely tolerate the heat anymore.

The sun rises as I reach the Halekulani, the sky the palest shade of lavender gray. In front of my hotel tower, I’m sweating and walking in circles, waiting for the elevator.

As I’m walking, hands on hips, feet appear in my peripheral vision. Looking up, I see Butch.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says.