It was almost as if she was telling herself, rather than sharing the sentiment with me. I had been playing out this exchange in my own head for the last few weeks, afraid to say the words first. But I knew exactly what she meant. I loved Lauren Wright in the way people dream of being in love—with that all-encompassing, how-can-I-live-without-you, swept-off-my-feet commitment to another human being. A sense so overwhelming that oxygen, water, and food became meaningless to existence. I believed that I could easily survive on this feeling alone. It was a drug more powerful than any controlled substance, and just as hallucinatory. It warped your mind, made you do things a sane person would never consider.

I had never reached that height with Stuart. I loved things about him—his calmness, his love for Jacob and for me—but I did not love him like this. Not like I loved Lauren.

It made me both feel sorry for Stuart and understand him better. I finally realized why he looked at me the way he did. He knew this type of love.

Once you love someone like this, other love is revealed to be nothing of the sort. Which makes it not simply a lesser emotion, but a lie. Worse than that, even. It’s an inhibitor of true love, tricking you into forgoing the real thing for a pale imitation.

When I arrived back at the guest room, Stuart was still awake. He said Lauren and I had been gone long enough that he’d become worried. I apologized and told him that Lauren and I had got to talking at the beach, said we had lost track of the time.

“What were you talking about?” he asked.

“What people talk about. Work, a little. Life, a little.”

“She certainly likes you.”

I searched Stuart’s face for some clue that he was suggesting something closer to the truth. As usual, he was impossible for me to read.

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a feeling. But no need to get defensive. It’s a good thing, right? Your boss should like you.”

He reached for me. I could not have felt any lower, kissing him. I braced myself for the fact that it was going to get worse.

Then he pulled away abruptly. “Your hair is full of sand.”

I instinctively reached up to feel my scalp. It was gritty, as I should have expected from the last hour writhing around on the beach with Lauren on top of me.

“We were looking up at the stars,” I lied. “I should take a shower so I don’t get sand in the bed.”

32.

32.