When I’d left the theatre, it was dark and cold, but people were waiting by the stage door, hoping to catch a glimpse of James Bond. I’d walked home, feeling the same way I’d felt when I heard that he’d married Jacinda. Like a deflated balloon on the bottom of someone’s shoe. Like I’d been played for a fool.

It’s a feeling I should do well to remember right now.

Ollie is still somewhere in the restaurant, pretending to be on his phone. Gabe is looking down at his water, rotating the wet glass between his palms like he’s ineffectively trying to start a fire.

“I didn’t know she’d be there that night,” Gabe says. “I thought she was in London and then when I got offstage, she was in my dressing room.”

He looks up at me.

“Is that supposed to make it better?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just know how it looked and it wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

“How was it supposed to be?” I ask.

“I don’t know!” He’s angry. Frustrated. The feeling is mutual. “I don’t know. I thought—I mean, you hadn’t written about him—”

“The Novelist.”

Gabe blinks at me.

“Jeremy,” I self-correct.

Gabe pauses like he’s counting to ten in his head.

“You hadn’t written about him in a while, and Jacinda and I were never really, you know—” He gestures. “It wasn’t real.”

“Did Jacinda know that?” I ask. “Because she certainly seemed surprised to see me too.”

“It might have been my impulse to get married,” Gabe says. “But our initial arrangement was her idea.”

“She didn’t care that you and I…” I trail off, not exactly sure what I’m laying claim to.

Gabe looks down at the table. “She didn’t know,” he says. “About that weekend.”

I cross my arms—feeling vindicated and also like shit.

“I told her about it,” Gabe says. “But later.”

“Nice of you,” I say.

“Stupid.” Gabe points at himself. “Young.”

I nod, not disagreeing.

“She does know your work,” he says. “And she likes it.”

“That makes one of you,” I say.

“Chani,” he says.

I’m thinking about the interview I was supposed to do with her. How I’d chickened out.

“I was so glad to see you,” Gabe says. “You have no idea.”

“You were still married,” I say.

“I know!” He runs a hand through his hair. “But don’t forget, so were you.”

I open my mouth. Close it. He’s right, and it all suddenly feels absurd. We’re both angry at the other for the exact same reason. Both angry at each other for something neither of us really has a right to be angry about.

It takes all the air out of my rage.

“I was glad to see you too,” I say.