I stared at the picture, at my husband’s boyish, smiling face. I wanted to meet that young Trey. I wanted him to tell me the story, in his own words, fresh. My husband described his younger self as “a typical frat boy,” yet I hoped to God that what had happened to Lexie Pine was anything but typical.

Why had he never told me?

When Trey and I started dating, he didn’t earnestly detail his long-past college years, just as I didn’t breathlessly tell him all about my time in middle school. We’d talked much more about current things. Of course we discussed our childhoods, our families, our romantic histories, like any new couple getting serious. On his part, his marriage and divorce had loomed largest in our conversations. My own sexual history was recent and short and bland.

Trey was the first man to ever be devoted to my pleasure. His own seemed tied to it. Ladies first, and often ladies again. Before him I’d had only two serious boyfriends, so I had no war stories per se. But I’d talked to him about Betsy’s wild year, told him Crazy Betsy stories in the same way he’d told me a few Crazy Spencer tales. Surely he’d had openings to bring up Lexie Pine?

I’d even told him about the time Betsy frenched a girl, freshman year. She’d come whirling into our dorm room, bright-eyed and bursting with story. I’d closed my books to listen. It sounded like more than a kiss, actually. A mini-make-out session with pretty, petite Dai-tai from algebra.

“Do you like her?” I’d asked. “Does she like you?”

“Not like-like, either one of us. It was more of an experiment,” she’d said. “But her boyfriend kept scooting closer and closer. I got creeped out and bounced.”

I’d been horrified. “Her boyfriend was there? What if he hadn’t let you leave?”

She’d waved that way, overconfident and immortal. “We were on that flowered sofa at that coffeehouse place with the pool table. What was he going to do, drop trou and pin us both down in front of the waitress?”

My mouth had dropped open, literally, to hear that this had happened in public. I’d also been relieved. It felt safer. Less serious. When I told Trey this story, he’d laughed at my tone, telling me that back in his day Spencer’s Boho Hos danced sexy with each other, would even make out, looking coyly around to see what boys were watching.

“I think you must be the only girl who didn’t at least try kissing another girl at college,” he’d said. “Or the only one who wasn’t a Kappa anyway.” That was his ex-wife’s sorority, which I gathered had been Waspy and uptight.