Now even the businessmen are staring at us, trying to figure out what the fuss is about.

The last bite of my sandwich is too big. I hate chewing with everyone watching our table. I take a sip of water and try to wash it all down. The bread is dry and scratches my throat.

The waiter takes our plates—mine scraped clean, Matthew’s with his untouched sandwich—and asks if he can bring us anything else. It’s all I can do not to ask for that sandwich wrapped up to go. The looks I would get are only slightly sharper than the hunger I never seem to chase away.

“Just the check,” Matthew says.

I want to ask our waiter to pull up two extra chairs, one for the me I thought I’d be if I married Matty, and one for the me I really could have been if I had.

One is pregnant and sweaty, strands of peroxide blond hair sticking to her flushed face, wearing a smocked maternity dress from Sally Ann’s over stretchy stirrup pants. A gold ring jammed on her swelling finger; tiny diamonds in a clump, trying to look like one decent-size one.

The other me is smooth. A glossy brown bob cut to fall in her face so she can push it away. Impossibly white teeth, the snaggly one finally fixed. A big square diamond on a platinum band. Her black dress skims her sculpted figure, without a trace of lint or panty lines. Her underwear comes wrapped in tissue paper, not plastic, and always matches her bra. She wears sky-high heels that cost more than my guitar.

For a moment, I think that I’d happily swap lives with either girl. Either version of me would be easier than this one.

A woman appears at the edge of our table, two decades older than us at least. Hands shaking, the slightest hint of tears in her sharp brown eyes.

“Do you mind?” she asks, handing Matthew a pen and a scrap of paper from her purse.

“Of course,” he says, flashing those brilliant teeth.

“To Mary Jo, jay oh.” There’s a breathless quiver in her voice, like she’s just been blessed. “My sister. Oh! She’s never going to believe I met you.”

I watch him sign like it’s just one more autograph and realize that if I’d stayed, neither of those other versions of me would have happened. If I hadn’t been the one to go first, Matty would have left me. He’d still be Matthew now, and he wouldn’t have brought me along.

The woman leaves. The waiter brings us the check.

“I have bad news,” Matthew says, handing the waiter his credit card without looking at the bill. “I can’t make it to your show tonight.”