If he thinks this is making things better, he’s very, very wrong.

“I thought it would solve a lot of different problems,” he says. “Because at the time, we both wanted the same thing.”

“Well, I hope you got it,” I say.

Gabe keeps rubbing the back of his neck. I imagine it’s like a river stone back there, all that worrying making it smooth and hairless. I’d put my fingers there once before, though I can’t remember what it felt like.

That isn’t true—not exactly. I can’t remember the specific feel of that specific part of Gabe’s body but I do remember that I liked everything that I touched. And I do remember how much I liked it.

“People do it, you know,” he says.

“Get married for stupid reasons?” I ask. “Yeah, I know.”

“Was that…” He gestures.

It’s vague—more like he’s skipping stones than actually indicating anything specific—but I get what he’s trying to say.

“No,” I say. “I actually liked Jeremy.”

Only partly a lie. I liked him sometimes. I even loved him sometimes.

“The Novelist,” he says.

“Jeremy.”

Gabe nods.

“I actually liked Jacinda too,” he says. “I still do, in fact.”

“Great,” I say. “Should I expect to see a blind item about two former lovers rekindling their romance by renewing their vows in Vegas next week?”

“No,” Gabe says. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“I don’t care,” I say.

“Of course,” Gabe says.

I hate that he knows I’m lying.

This time I’m the one making the skipping-stone gesture, because I just want him to hurry and finish his dumb-ass apology so I can leave and go home and cry about his dead dog. Because I definitely don’t want to cry about some stupid misguided sense of lost time and missed chances.

“I’m sure you read all the things they were writing about her around that time,” Gabe says. “About the married directors. About the one who named her in his divorce proceedings.”

“Sure,” I said.

I’m steeling myself, because I really don’t want to feel sympathetic or understanding about whatever arrangement Gabe and Jacinda had, but the truth is that I do remember what the tabloids said about her.

“She didn’t. Sleep with them, that is,” he says. “It was all one-sided. They propositioned her, but she turned them down.”

I nod.

“It didn’t really seem to matter, though,” Gabe says. “No one believed her. As far as the tabloids were concerned, she was single and beautiful and therefore somehow responsible.”

I’d been asked to interview her. Years ago—when there had been rumors that Gabe and her were on the rocks—someone had pitched it to Broad Sheets. They’d begged me to do it, knowing that it would certainly go viral.