There’s that difference between lying and acting. The distance between the two is a hair’s width, but it’s there. And right now, I am lying.

She narrows her eyes. “Like what? What am I directing?”

“You did Three Tall Women recently. That one was pretty boring, if I’m honest, but it was well done. My favorite one you did was Death of a Salesman. You had Jake Gyllenhaal and Scarlett Johansson in that one. That’s probably the biggest…” I feign a scroll through the fictional repertoire. “Yeah, that’s the biggest one you’ve done.”

I watch her mental gears turn. “Okay. That’s pretty cool, then. But that”—she drops her voice—“fortune teller. She said you had two lives. So that came true, right? But what she said to me…”

I will my cheeks to stay unflushed. “Well, to be fair, she didn’t really say anything to you. We don’t know what your palm said.”

We look at each other and I know, just like back then, that we’re thinking the same thing. That we do know. Only difference now is that I’m sure.

“Maybe she just hates theatre,” I say.

Aimee snorts her drink at my joke. She nods. “Could be that.” She clears her throat. “So why were you so frenzied about meeting up with me then? If I’m around in your real life, then it shouldn’t be a big deal, right? Even if we don’t see each other that much.” She looks suspicious.

“When I found out that this version of me messed things up, I wanted to fix it. That’s all.”

I can tell that she’s reluctant to believe me, but she acts like she does anyway. Maybe because it sounds nice and she wants to believe me. Maybe because she simply doesn’t want to argue about it.

I wonder if it sounds intoxicatingly appealing to her, this life I’ve invented. If the mother of two who sits before me feels excited and wistful at the idea of a glitzy life like that. If she wishes she could trade early mornings with kids for late salons with the literati of Manhattan.

It’s a lot better than the truth.

“So, what are we fighting about?” I ask.

Her face hardens a little again and I wish I hadn’t asked.

“It wasn’t one thing, you know? It wasn’t like you slept with my husband and now we don’t talk.”

“Well. I mean.” I cock my head briefly.

“What?”

“Well, if your husband is Theo, then definitely not.” It’s meant to be sort of a dark joke, but it comes off mean, so I add, “But I wouldn’t do that, even if you were with a young Robert Redford.”

“Who?”

My jaw drops. “Do not tell me Robert Redford doesn’t exist here.”

She smiles. “Kidding.”