Freya and I had always sat near the window, always enjoyed taking in the view with our salads and lively conversation. But today called for a dismal back corner to accompany my burger and silence. I was moving toward a vacant table when I saw him. Max Beausoleil was standing near the bar, his hands in his pockets, waiting for a take-out order. I wanted to turn around, to duck into the restroom, but he looked up then and saw me.

“Hey,” he said, and goddammit, my stomach fluttered. I’d put what we did out of my mind, but my body still remembered.

“Hi.” I felt self-conscious of my bedraggled state, my wan pallor, my sour breath, until I looked into his handsome face. Max’s right eye was bruised, a dark crescent under his lower lashes, turning shades of yellow, purple, and green as it healed. “What happened?” I blurted.

His response was instant, practiced. “I was canoeing. Got an oar in the eye.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

I swallowed. “How’s Freya?” Did he know that his wife wasn’t speaking to me? Had she told him that Brian and I couldn’t handle what we had done that night? That guilt, jealousy, and insecurity were tearing us apart?

“She’s good,” he said. “She was craving an acai bowl.”

“I’m glad she’s eating healthy. For the baby.” I forced a smile. “You must be getting excited.”

“Yep.” But he didn’t sound excited; he sounded eager to leave. He looked toward the kitchen, willing his order to come.

“I’m going to grab a table,” I said. “I’m on my lunch break. I need to order some food.”

“Good to see you, Jamie.”

“You too,” I said as I backed away. “Take care of that eye.”

Alone at the quiet table, I tried to compose myself. Max still made me feel nervous and guilty and attracted and confused. But today, he roused something else in me. Concern. Even pity. What had happened to his eye? Was it really an accident with an oar? I thought about those puncture marks on his chest, healed to a four-pronged scar. How had that happened? Was someone hurting him? Was he hurting himself?

My mind couldn’t fathom a situation of abuse or self-harm. Not with this gorgeous couple who looked so perfect from the outside. But Max’s injuries were odd, their explanations unsatisfactory. He was still at the bar; I could sense his presence. I considered going back to him, to discern if he was really okay. But I couldn’t bring up the scar on his chest without addressing the taboo subject of our night together. My face got hot just thinking about it. And then my phone buzzed.

I picked it up thinking it was Low. We must have gotten an unforeseen rush of business. But it was Freya. My heart pitter-pattered as I read her words.

Sorry for the delay. Misplaced my phone.