“Good-looking men?”

“Who fantasizes about ugly men? Of course, good-looking men. Please stop.”

“Because you cannot tell a lie?”

“Because you do not need to know my every thought. Jesus.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to force down the jealous anger that was rising in me. “That’s fair. That’s a reasonable point.”

After all, Elsa had a right to her own thoughts. I breathed out heavily, tried to refocus my mind.

Although . . .

“Matter of interest,” I said, as casually as I could. “What is your type?”

“What is my type?”

“Or who?”

“Please, Cal.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Don’t do this.”

“You want me to withdraw the question?”

“I want you to withdraw the question.”

“I won’t.”

She reached across me, rolled the tip of her cigarette around the ashtray, then she sat up.

“Then before I answer your question, please understand that, although I do think about other men, I do not plan to be unfaithful to you.”

I laughed. “That’s reassuring.”

“You should be reassured. Assuming you care what I do. Instead you are sarcastic. Which makes me think that you do not care.” She was staring very hard at the tip of her cigarette. For the first time it occurred to me that I had hurt her.

I ran my hand down her arm, eased the cigarette from her fingers into mine. Still she would not look at me. I took a draw, then offered her the cigarette.

Her eyes flicked to mine, then flicked away. “You’re a fucking idiot if you can’t see I have feelings for you.” She looked at me, checking that I understood the weight behind the words.

“Maybe I am a fucking idiot.” A moment of pure elation. “I really didn’t know.”

She was watching me keenly now, and a thought was forming in my mind. A terrifying thought that I almost didn’t dare speak.

“What?” she said.

I shook my head.

“No, Cal, I’d really like to know your reaction to what I just said.”

“You don’t need to know my every thought.”

“Don’t laugh at me. I really want to know what you’re thinking.”

“Okay. All right.” I took a long, tantric breath. “This is what I was thinking: I was wondering if you love me, Elsa.”

She laughed in mock outrage. “Not fair.”

“That was—in all honesty—what I was thinking . . .”

“You’re going to force me to tell you if I love you?” She was smiling at me, almost daring me . . .

“Am I going to like the answer?” I said. “Because in that case, yes, I am going to force you to answer.”

“Slightly fuck off,” she said, as if she were considering the thought. “But also, okay. Here goes.” She paused. Looked at me. Laughed. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“Ask me the question again.”

“Elsa,” I said. “Do you love me?”