“Yeah. But good luck putting an insurance company behind bars.”

“Does she have kids?” Adam asks.

“Two little girls. Of course. All three of them volunteer at the animal shelter together. Of course. Honestly, the best protection against cancer is to be a jerk. Jerks are totally immune.”

“Is there any research to support this theory?” He unpacks the salad containers and digs forks out of a drawer.

“Who’s going to give out that grant? There’s no national jerk lobby.”

Adam laughs out loud, and I feel a warmth I can’t deny when I look at him, his midnight-blue shirt untucked and sleeves rolled up. He’s already changed out of his slacks and into a pair of sweats. To be around him is to have a taste of a life that always seemed beyond reach—a life propelled by the future, not dragged by the past.

I could have a lovely life with Adam. But we cannot have that life if I don’t come out of the shadows. I have told myself a thousand times that Adam will still love me even when he knows everything because it changes nothing about me.

And he deserves to know.

Adam sets two wineglasses on the table and watches me pour a rippling vermillion stream into each.

“You’re the most amazing woman,” he says tenderly. His raised glass shines like a chalice in the hands of a king.

“For not spilling a drop?” I demur.

He drops his head and I press my lips together. It’s not the first time I’ve done this. I take a perfectly warm, loving moment and drop it into ice water.

Back in high school, Mom floated the idea of giving therapy a second try. I refused, but knew there was something wrong with me. In college, I took a couple of psychology classes that helped me name what I was feeling. In medical school, trauma and PTSD and treatment methods were covered in one lecture. For those of us not going into psychiatry, that was the end of it.

I could see my own pathology. I knew why I pushed men away and broke down at the sound of a tabla or the smell of my mother’s perfume. I read about treatment too. I learned about cognitive behavioral therapy and desensitization and medications that were available. But I’d also heard that medical license applications asked about any history of mental health issues. If I stepped foot in a therapist’s office or took a week of antidepressants, they might not license me. I couldn’t risk my career to talk through my feelings with someone. I’d been doing the work myself and thought I was making good progress.

“Sorry, hon,” I say, walking over to him to offer a kiss. “Forgive this sarcastic girlfriend?”

He looks at me, his face drawn.