This got his attention. He looked up. “Oh, Kate, hi.” He quickly slid out of the booth and stood to greet me. “My God, you look fabulous.”

I kissed his cheek. He smelled of a mixture of cigarettes, cologne, and too much soap. “Jefferson,” I said. “How good to see you.”

“You really do look fabulous.”

“You seem surprised.”

He helped me off with my coat. I removed the furry earmuffs the boys had given me last Christmas and took my place across from him. He’d dressed casually. Too casually, I thought. A loose-fitting black sweater, faded jeans, brand-new black leather tennis shoes.

“I was hoping we’d have some time alone,” he said.

“We’re alone right now, Jeff.”

“Yes, but,” he said, pausing to smile, “he’s in the bathroom.”

In all the rush—and I’m not proud of this—I’d forgotten Tim was coming. This was particularly troubling because I had insisted that he join us. He was worried he’d be in the way. I said, “Nonsense, you’re my husband,” something like that, something obvious that didn’t really express why I wanted him there. But I was firm, and finally, he relented.

Jeff glanced back over toward the men’s room. “He’s been in there a long time.”

“What? Oh, he’s funny that way.”

“Yes, but he’s been in there a really long time. I mean, I hope Tom’s okay.”

“Tim. It’s Tim.”

“Since when?”

“It’s always been Tim.”

“Aw, you’re kidding.” Jeff brought both hands to his face. “Aw, man. I wondered if I had the name right. You know that feeling when you don’t know if a name is right? You kind of hesitate but hope. And when he didn’t say anything, I kept saying Tom.”

“It’s his own fault, then. He should have said something.”

“I feel bad.”

“He’ll be okay.”

There was an awkward silence during which we looked at each other. Others would say he was more handsome now. The short, spiked hair, the day-old beard, the same real teeth, now bleached a blinding white. But I preferred the longer-haired Jeff, the less buff, perpetually stoned, in-need-of-a-bath, roll-his-own-cigarettes Slakowitz that I’d lusted for once upon a time.

Taking my hands in his, he said, “I feel terrible about what happened with us. There’s so much to say. So much I’d do differently. Like that was a vulnerable time, right before the wedding, and I wished I hadn’t . . .”

Jeff Slakowitz came to our wedding, even though I had wanted to uninvite him. But since my sudden desire to uninvite him might have exposed what had occurred, he remained on the guest list.

“It’s behind us,” I said.

“You say that, but . . .”