“But I’m trying to tell you what happened yesterday.”

“Yesterday included.”

How cool was he. It was one of those moments when I knew I was marrying the right man.

But now Jeff Slade, TV star, was sitting across from me, struggling to find the words so that I might forgive him our past.

“I was rotten to you,” he said.

“Really, I don’t remember it that way.” I was lying.

“Part of my program of recovery is that I make amends to the people I’ve hurt. And you are my last person. And I want to thank you for giving me this chance . . .”

The beauty of this particular narcissist is that while he believed he’d changed and learned and grown, he forgot that so had the person sitting across from him. Yes, he hurt me, and yes, it took a long time to recuperate, but time and distance had been my friends in this regard: If there had never been the frequently drunk and wasted Jeff Slakowitz, the three-timing, deceit-riddled Jeff Slakowitz, that hollow/shallow/ soulless thing of beauty, I never would have found Tim. Jeff made Tim possible in the same way that any person’s mistakes inform his or her future choices. I can’t count the times I’ve wanted to tell my husband, “Without Jeff Slade, there would have been no you.”

I had the above thoughts while Jeff Slade kept on talking: “. . . was awful to you. And boy, do I know it now. The monster I was . . .”

Also, I wanted to thank him for single-handedly altering my aesthetic sensibility. Because of him, my idea of what beauty was changed from the washboard stomach, the chiseled cheekbones, the Adonis-like figure, and the love of mirrors to dependable, decent, humble, funny, gentle, generous. Slakowitz was my transition. He was my vapid, gorgeous fuck buddy. Tim Welch was my future.

“I hurt you, and I wish I could . . .”

But now, to mess with my head, Jeff Slade was midway through making his amends when I realized what he’d become. Dependable, decent, humble, funny, gentle, generous. And also newly sober.

“I’m basically trying to say I’m a changed man. And I wish I’d changed sooner—”

“I get it. I got it. Don’t say any more.”

But it appeared Jeff was just getting started when I heard a vaguely familiar male voice go, “Oops.”

We both turned to find Tim, who had finally emerged from the bathroom, standing there. I didn’t recognize him right away.

“Do you two want more time alone?”

That was when I started to laugh, partly from guilt (because I did maybe want more time) but mostly because of how he was dressed. He wore his professorial cardigan sweater with the brown moleskin elbow patches. He’d slicked back his hair in such a way that it made him look younger and more vulnerable. What especially got me was the rose-briar pipe (empty of tobacco, of course) that he held in his hand and occasionally stuck in his mouth. He looked retro-fifties, like a loving father from one of those black-and-white TV shows. It was off-putting at first, but it quickly grew on me. Bravo, I thought. Tim was the real actor that evening. Award-winning. He hadn’t wanted to attend the reunion of two ex-lovers, but he’d come along because I’d insisted. And for better or worse, he’d come on his own terms.