“Yes she is, isn’t she? She’s the love of my life.” He kissed me tenderly then on the neck as if he really meant it, and for the first time that day—actually, for the first time since Adrienne had called the week before and my nightmare began—all my inner demons, the Quartet of Jewish Gloom and Doom, the Evil Twins, were quieted.

Adrienne flinched ever so slightly. “And I can see why.”

And with that last comment, she exited our home with Terrance in tow and Gayle following close behind, trying to chase the tail of her comet.

The house was quiet; the dog asleep. Donald and I walked back to the kitchen and sat among the ruins—the plates were stacked on the counter, lined up and ready to be loaded into the dishwasher; pots and pans and serving platters and grill racks waited to be scrubbed. I turned to him in the dim light. A broad, relaxed smile spread across his face.

“Well, I think that went very well,” he said.

“Yes.”

A lie.

“The fish was great.”

“Yes.”

“And the vegetables?”

“Grilled to perfection.”

The vegetables sucked, I thought. Burnt, charred, reeking of gas.

“And Terrance and Adrienne. They really seemed to hit it off. I wonder if they’ll—you know,” he said, “get together.”

“You mean, tonight? In the hotel? As in, have sex?”

He shook his head. “No, no. Adrienne would never do that. She has a strict rule about that: five dates.”

“Is that how long she waited before sleeping with you?”

Donald blanched. “What?”

“Is that how long she waited? Or, should I say, is that how long she made you wait? Back when you first met her?”

“I don’t quite know where you’re going with this.”

“Okay. Let me be more blunt: You and Adrienne were having quite a love fest all night.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You heard me. You were having a love fest. A flirt fest. A great time reminiscing and retelling all your charming little romantic stories.”

“Elise,” he said wearily, “we were not having a love fest. We were just—”

“Just what? Reconnecting?”

He considered the statement. “Well, actually, yes. That’s exactly what we were doing. We hadn’t seen each other for two years. We were just catching up.”

“Bullshit. You were flirting.”

“I was not.”

“You were so.”

“Elise! Honey!” He tried to make this all sound silly and inconsequential. “I was not flirting! I was just, you know, excited to see her. And nervous.”

“Excited? And nervous?” I put my hands out in front of me like two sides of a scale. “Sounds like flirting to me.”

He shrugged, with just a trace of guilt. “Okay. So maybe I was being a little too”—he stopped, tried to search for the most accurate, least incriminating word (as far as I was concerned, one didn’t exist)—“friendly.”