That was her way of saying our astrological signs weren’t compatible. I didn’t believe it, not really, but I did take some comfort in the belief that someone else thought the end of my marriage was inevitable in some way. That it wasn’t my fault.

Say yes, she texts again as if she might not have been clear enough the first time.

I roll my eyes and put my phone away.

There are several things she could be referring to, but it’s probably in regard to the email I’d gotten from my agent after accepting this assignment.

She wants me to pitch another collection of essays. My editor wants to buy one. I know they’re both thinking that this article would be the centerpiece of that theoretical book.

I keep telling them to wait.

I don’t know what I’m asking them to wait for.

They’re both thrilled I’m doing this interview. Everyone involved is looking to capture the same lightning in a bottle that happened the first time—when my article about Gabe made him a believable Bond and me a marketable name.

I don’t want to be ungrateful, but I also know that the main reason I got my first book deal was because I was that writer. The one that didn’t sleep with Gabe Parker (or did sleep with him, depending on what part of the internet you visit).

It’s not exactly what I want to be known for.

But I don’t really have a choice.

I step out of the bathroom and head to the patio.

Ten years ago, it was a sunny winter day. Today is overcast.

It’s a good day for writing—for holing up inside with a cup of tea and working until your eyes are bleary and you’ve missed dinner.

I wrap my cardigan around me, second-guessing my outfit. I know that for the most part, I look the same. The changes are small—my jeans aren’t as tight; my eyesight isn’t as good. There are some witchy whites threaded through my hair, which is bang-less and has been for years.

I wonder what Gabe will think of it—of me—now.

I wish I didn’t. I wish I didn’t care. I wish this was like the other celebrity profiles I do these days—where I don’t worry what the person thinks of me. Where I don’t wonder what they remember about that weekend. About that night in New York. About that phone call.

I wish I didn’t keep wondering what if?

Of course, I know what Gabe looks like now. I did my research. Technically, I never stopped doing my research, but it was nice to tell myself I had an excuse to look up pictures of him.