I told them the story of reconnecting with Sylvia, how quickly things between us had progressed, how neither of us seemed able—or willing, at first—to slow down, and the disastrous New Year’s Eve debacle.

Lucas listened silently and attentively, looking every inch the therapist with an ankle crossed over one knee, his elbow resting on the arm of the couch, his chin in his hand. His wife, on the other hand, reacted with loud gasps, sighs, and sounds of dismay wherever appropriate. Her body language was just as dramatic—she’d clap, rub her palms together, tug at her hair in frustration. I half expected her to get on the floor and start kicking and screaming when I told her that Sylvia had broken it off in early January.

But she only sighed dramatically and nodded in sympathy. “Poor thing. You can’t choose yourself over your children. You just can’t.”

“I know. And I’d never expect her to.” I went on to explain how Sylvia still wanted to work at the winery, and how I’d felt obligated to keep my promise to teach her.

“You felt obligated?” Lucas questioned, a knowing smile on his lips.

“Okay, fine.” I raised my palm. “It was a way I could still see her and talk to her, be close to her. But I swear to God, nothing ever happened between us. For a solid month, we did our best to just be friends.”

“And what happened?” Mia asked.

“What happened was we fell in love anyway,” I said, frustrated all over again. “It didn’t matter that we weren’t sleeping together, or doing anything physical at all.”

“Of course not.” Mia shook her head. “Because your connection to her isn’t just about sex. It goes deeper than that.”

“Which is what scares her.”

“Do you think it’s too soon for her?” Lucas asked, breaking his long silence.

“Lucas!” Mia reached over and slapped his arm. “No, it’s not too soon. This woman loves him. She admitted it.” She looked at me for confirmation. “Right?”

“Right. But she also told me to forget her, like in the same breath.” I explained what happened the last time I saw her. “I told her I loved her. I told her I wanted to take care of her. I wouldn’t walk away without a fight. And she said I had to—that she didn’t know how to let herself be loved like that and she was too scared to try.”

Mia had been sliding down on the sofa ever since I started talking, as if my story was deflating her hopes like a balloon losing air, and finally wound up in a puddle on the rug next to the coffee table. “That’s it,” she said. “I’m dead.”

Lucas exhaled heavily. “You’ll be okay.”