After a few more blocks, we reach Bourbon Street, a stretch of road whose name is synonymous with debauchery. Sure enough, it’s teeming with loud, rowdy partiers. Loud whoops and yells. Frat boys with matching jerseys jostling and screaming up at the balconies, clustered with hard-core drinkers, dangling beads in their hands. Little squads of bachelorette parties—pretty, innocent women wearing sashes and tiaras—stumbling by in their high heels, careful not to take a tumble or spill their drinks. The flashes of phones taking photos of ladies exposing their breasts for the privilege of receiving strings of worthless plastic beads. Dueling bands and DJs send waves of music among the crowds from the open doors and windows of bars.

“I don’t think I have the strength for this tonight,” she says, stopping at a street corner. “Sorry. It’s getting late. Can we start heading back?”

We’ve reached a crossroads. In more ways than one. An invitation back to my place is on the tip of my tongue. But with Vanessa, I don’t want to rush things. It’s a delicate balance, with her being married and my attention already so divided.

“That’s probably a good idea,” I reluctantly answer.

“Right. Yeah. It is. Unless … ” Her lips curl into a hint of a smile. “Do you want to come over for a nightcap? I make a mean club soda with lime.”

This part of Bourbon Street is raucous, loud, and overwhelming.

But through some miracle of science or affection, I’ve heard her words loud and clear.

We squeeze hands and walk away.

CHAPTER 46

We drive separately to her and Lucas’s home in the Lower Garden District. It’s a classic terraced town house, with a beige façade and periwinkle shutters. The way its paint scheme reflects the moonlight, it looks like, well, something magical out of a fantasy movie, one involving wizards, elves, beautiful maidens, and heroic warrior/chefs.

I park in front and take a moment to collect myself before I go inside.

Since my divorce from Marlene, this is the first time I’ve felt this good about another woman. I can even imagine a real future with her.

But at the same time, I’m thinking, what the hell am I doing? Our timing is terrible. Our circumstances are even worse. For God’s sake, she’s married.

I wish things were different. Desperately. But this is the hand I’ve been dealt.

I know if I don’t try to play it … I might regret it forever.

Vanessa greets me at the front door with a “Hi,” and a tender kiss on the cheek.

She leads me into the living room, which is decorated in an eclectic Southern style: a Victorian love seat, antique French cast-iron chairs. The lights are dim, and some tinkling Art Tatum piano jazz is wafting from an actual record player in the corner.