I’d fallen asleep, manifesting weird, vivid dreams born of unresolved sexual tension.

Those feelings are still burning inside of me now. I feel itchy with need.

I’m also thirsty. I gulp down the water, but it’s not enough so I drink from the faucet in my private bathroom, wash my face and get dressed. My skin feels tight, like lust is a wild animal pacing beneath it.

I’m divorced. And so is Gabe.

I want him. He wants me.

I wonder what would happen if I just took off my clothes and crawled into bed with him.

Then I hear muffled whistling and realize that Gabe is already up.

Surely, he’ll want to pick up where we left off last night.

Where we left off ten years ago.

I hesitate—my instincts going Jekyll and Hyde on me. Wanting him, but also wanting to run. Because I know now what I’d tried to ignore last night. That this isn’t just about one weekend. This isn’t about closure or unfinished business.

This isn’t the end of something. It’s the beginning.

And it terrifies me.

When I emerge from the guest room, I find Gabe fully dressed, drinking a cup of coffee and looking not like a man who wants to spend the entire day in bed, but rather like a man who has things to do.

I’m relieved and disappointed.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning.”

“How’s your head?” he asks.

I put a hand to it as if I’m checking if it’s still there.

“It’s fine,” I say.

My heart on the other hand…

He comes toward me.

“I’ve got plans for us today,” he says.

I’m fairly certain, from his tone, that they aren’t the same plans I was making in my room. In fact, it seems possible that I completely blew it last night.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I had a little too much to drink.”

“I know,” he says.

Gabe cups my elbow, thumb rubbing on the inside of my arm. Heat licks through me, this endless fire that never really went out, but previously had almost always been under control—this smoldering ember that I did my best to ignore.

“I’ve done far stupider stuff when I was drunk,” he says.

“I know,” I say. “I’ve seen the video.”

He laughs.

“Ulrich deserved it,” he says.

I nod.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“I need shoes,” I say.

“Take your time,” Gabe says. “I’m not in any rush.”

He’s not talking about my shoes.

I exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I sit on the couch as I pull on my boots.

There’s a pile of magazines next to the puzzle on the coffee table. On top is an issue of Broad Sheets. The issue.

I’m holding it when Gabe comes into the room, my bootlaces loose and untied.

“Let me explain,” he says.