James eyed the vase of flowers on the table. “My name is on the reservation, too, Caroline.” He tossed a few travel documents—his passport and a couple of receipts—onto the table next to the flowers. His shoulders slumped and his eyes creased at the edges. I’d never seen him look so tired.

“You look exhausted,” I said, my voice hoarse. My mouth had gone dry.

“I haven’t slept in three days. Exhausted is an understatement.” He touched one of the flowers, running his finger along the edge of a silky, baby blue petal. “Thank you for not turning me away at the door,” he said, looking at me tearfully. I’d only seen him cry twice: once at our wedding reception, when he raised a glass of pink champagne to me, his new wife, and once after his uncle’s burial ceremony, as we walked away from the gaping hole in the earth that was soon filled with dirt.

But his tears drew no sympathy from me. I didn’t want to be around him, could barely look at him. I pointed to the sofa underneath the window, with its round arms and tufted upholstery. It wasn’t meant for sleeping, but for lounging and easy conversation and lustful, late-night lovemaking—all the things James and I wouldn’t be doing. “You should rest. There are extra blankets in the closet. The room service is quick, too, if you’re hungry.”

He gave me a confused look. “Are you going somewhere?”

The late-morning sun shone bright into the room, leaving pale yellow streaks across the hotel room floor. “I’m going out to get lunch,” I said, taking off my sneakers and putting on flats.

The hotel room had listed a few suggestions in a binder on the table; there was an Italian place just a few blocks away. I needed comfort food, and maybe a glass of Chianti. Not to mention an Italian restaurant was likely to be low-lit. Perfect for someone like me who needed a discreet place to think, maybe cry. Seeing James now, in flesh and blood, had left a hard lump in my throat. I wanted to embrace him as much as I wanted to shake him, to make him tell me why he’d ruined us.

“Can I join you?” He ran his hand across his jawline, hidden under three days’ worth of stubble.

I knew the misery that was jet-lagged heartache, and in spite of myself, I pitied him for it. And hadn’t I decided to stop ignoring the discomfort in looking deeper? I might as well start by getting some things off my chest. I only hoped I could keep the tears at bay. “Sure,” I muttered, then I grabbed my bag and led the way out the door.