The elevator that we take up to the top floor is beautiful, the hallway too; and when we open the door to the room, I take a few steps in and then stand still. Past the bathroom, with its fine wallpaper and richly-veined marble, is a living room with a huge window overlooking the public garden. Heavy silk curtains with colors of robin’s egg blue and gold, with thin red stripes. Tie-backs with tassels that must weigh ten pounds apiece. A table and two Chippendale-style chairs are arranged before the window, and a floral brocade sofa is against the wall, gold-framed prints above it. Off to the side there’s an antique cabinet with a Chinese vase–style lamp turned on to a low glow, a bottle of wine, and two glasses on top of it.

I open the French doors and go into the bedroom, where there is another large window from which you can see the gold dome of the state house. There is a bench before the window, an armoir with a televison inside. And a king-sized bed.

“Oh,” I say.

Chip comes in to stand behind me. “What?”

I point to the bed.

“What about it?”

“I forgot to ask for two beds. I’ll call down.” I pick up the phone, and Chip takes it from my hand, puts it back in the cradle. “We’ll work it out,” he says. And then he takes me by the shoulders, turns me around, and kisses me full on the mouth. I don’t move until he steps back from me. Then, when he says, “Okay?” I put my arms around him and kiss him back.

We lie down on the bed and I begin to shiver. “Are you cold?” he asks, and I tell him no, no, I’m not cold. I close my eyes, and then do nothing but let myself feel his hands move slowly up and down my body. His hands, my body. Behind my lids I see not the man with the scars and the failing memory, but the boy with the world at his feet: running off the football field, his helmet in his hand; dressed in his suit and tie at the homecoming dance; laughing at his table in the cafeteria; jiggling his pencil at his desk, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. I see Chip Reardon coming down the hall of our high school, grinning, his books at his side, his letter jacket sleeves pushed up. He is that boy again, that one. And I am that same odd-shaped girl, leaning against my locker, waiting for him to see me. His blond hair glints in the light that comes from the windows, his blue eyes scan the crowds. And then he finds me, and he stops looking. I am the one, and he takes my hand, and we walk on together. They all look up and say nothing; I am the one, now.