Despite Tinsley’s best efforts, it’s just not happening. Finally, we inch apart and readjust our clothes. Tinsley plucks two Benson & Hedges from a red metal tin, lights both, and hands one to me. I pull my legs up, rest my chin on my knees, and wish I were anywhere but here. Not only not in these woods, feeling humiliated, but here in this lost, bereft, fretful place in my life.

Sitting cross-legged, Tinsley gazes up at the dark trees. Crickets chirp. From somewhere nearby comes the hoot of an owl.

“What are you thinking?” she asks softly.

“What makes you think I’m thinking anything?” I appreciate her concern but can’t say I feel like talking right now.

“You’re always thinking, Lucas. Even when you pretend not to be.”

“What are you thinking?” I ask petulantly. Can we please not focus on me?

“I asked first.”

“So? I’m asking second.” It comes out harsher than I meant.

“Don’t be like this, Lucas. It’s not my fault. It’s not your fault.”

She’s right. If it were just my dick, it might be acceptable (on a one-time-only basis). But it’s not just that. It feels like my entire fucking life isn’t working. And I can’t pretend not to know why. Whatever a man sows, this he will also reap.

So if this really is the first day of the rest of my life, does anyone mind if I get off at the next stop?

“I’m sorry. I’m just . . . It’s hard to explain.”

“Did something happen with your girlfriend?”

I feel an involuntary grimace and take a drag of the Benson & Hedges. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. “Is it that obvious?”

“It is to me.”

So I tell her about Robin and Samuel. Remarkably, Tinsley doesn’t take offense at learning that the person who just failed to have sex with her couldn’t consummate because he was thinking about his (former?) girlfriend.

“It wasn’t because you weren’t able to visit her, was it?” Tinsley asks.

I shake my head. Once again I can’t help thinking back to the morning Robin left for camp. Did she already know she was going to break up with me? Was she looking forward to seeing Samuel? Seriously, Lucas, does it matter now?

It’s late. We pull into my driveway. The Spitfire’s top is down. The stars are out. Here and there among the houses on my block, a single bedroom light glows behind a curtain.

“Have you heard from Barry?” Tinsley asks.

“Not recently.” The pointed angst and frustration I was feeling in the woods have diminished, thanks in no small part to Tinsley’s frank and mellow attitude.

“Think he likes it up there?” she asks.

“Guess I’ll find out next week.”

“At the festival?”

“Uh-huh.”