He introduced himself as Hector. He was about my age, strikingly muscular in a fresh blue polo, with some light acne scars that gave him a distinguished air.

“I want the Lakers to win,” he said. “It’s good for the city, I like to see people happy. But to be honest with you, I’m a Clippers fan.”

“Really?”

“Clipper Nation.”

“Weird.”

His laugh came with unexpected giddiness, charming me. When Kobe got to the hole, cutting the lead to six, he whooped and slapped the bar. Now that we were watching together, he loosened up, and I did too, urging on the purple and gold as they tried to mount a comeback, until the Kings hit another calm, deflating shot and silenced us.

And then it happened. With the Lakers down two and only ten seconds left, Kobe drove to the rim but couldn’t get it to go. Shaq squeezed the rebound but couldn’t put it back. It was totally bleak. But in an inexplicable stroke of luck, the ball was slapped out to Robert Horry, poised at the top of the three-point arc. Without thinking, he let it fly, the final buzzer sounding as the ball soared, and it went. Just like that, the Lakers won.

People hopped on tables, fists clenched and pumping, eyes rolling wildly, everybody making crazy sounds. Hector and I gripped each other’s hands and were jumping up and down. The bartender poured tequila over a row of shot glasses. On TV, Jack Nicholson was flabbergasted.

Then we were in the street. Cars blared their horns and we cried out to them, as if cheering on guerrillas surging down from the hills.

Hector said, “I love it.”

“Me too.”

“Do you live around here, Whitney?”

He had a gap-toothed smile, and I kissed him. As I’d grown drunker, it occurred to me that it might be nice to get laid tonight, and what better time than after Robert Horry’s shot, in the afterglow of victory?

But as soon as Hector touched me, hands strong on my hips, the stubble around wet lips, I thought of Lane’s trapping weight, the hard little dick. I couldn’t thrust it from my mind. I squirmed away in anger.

Hector backed off, showing both hands. “Okay,” he said, “no problem.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.”

He scratched the back of his head, shyly observing me out of the corner of his eye. My rage gave way to pity and I grew frustrated. Why couldn’t I just enjoy this guy? I was thousands of miles away, he had nothing to do with Lane, Lane had nothing to do with my sex life.

But I’d hit a wall and just started down the block, weaving through the crowds.

4.

Mom was awake when I got home, watching the news in the living room with peppered cucumber slices and a glass of Perrier.

She said, “What’s happening out there?”