Martin arrived at the flamenco bar almost half an hour late. He’d called me from his car, apologizing and swearing to be there soon. When he finally arrived, he was oddly disheveled in a crumpled suit, and his eyes were frantic as he scanned the room. He spotted me and pushed his way through the crowd, then wrapped his arms around me tightly. He kissed me on the forehead, then lightly on the mouth. “I was afraid you wouldn’t wait,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I hate being late, especially for you.”

I’d had time to think about how I would deal with him while I dressed at Jesse’s, then later as I sipped cava at the scarred wooden counter at the bar on Crosby Street. The place was just as I remembered—a long, skinny, dark-paneled room with red velvet curtains that blocked the eyes of the world outside. Rumor had it that the place had been raided a couple of times for fire-code overcrowding violations. Almost every seat snaked along the bar; there were just a couple of plush red velvet seats at tables for the lucky few who had staked an early claim. Later in the evening, the tables would be removed and the space would resonate with guitar music, clapping hands, and the nailed heels of the dancers. I’d visited plenty of flamenco bars in Spain, and my interest in the dance had only grown.

“It’s all right,” I told Martin. This wasn’t how I’d planned to begin. I’d been simmering at the bar, turning over in my mind the best way to get the truth out of him. Since I’d spoken with Rachel, I hadn’t been able to shake the image of my sister and my ex together.

He let go of me and took half a step back. “You look absolutely beautiful, Lily. Like Ava in her prime in The Barefoot Contessa.”

“Thank you.”

“That dress is incredibly sexy. Vintage?”

“Yes, it is.” I was wearing a rioja-red silk number from the 1950s, low-cut with a narrow waist and full skirt. I’d traded my boots for black patent slingbacks and added a patterned shawl I’d bought in India. Before I could say anything else, Martin turned to the barman.

“Double scotch, neat.”

“No scotch,” said the barman. “White wine, red, sangria, cava.”

“Lily, you’ve brought me to a place that doesn’t serve alcohol?” Martin’s expression was incredulous. “I’d forgotten there was a reason I didn’t like it.” He turned back to the bar. “I’ll have whatever my girl is having.” The barman procured a champagne flute from under the bar and poured a glass of cava, sparkling white wine from Spain.

Martin drank it in one gulp. “Another, please,” he said. The barman gave him a what-the-hell look and poured him a second glass.