Jeremy and I had celebrated our un-anniversary ever since he moved to Boston three years ago. It was always low-key and fun right up until last year, when, in a bout of deep loneliness, I invited him to spend the night. He’d been “spending the night,” if you get my drift, a couple of times a month ever since.

I knew Sophie was right that the relationship wasn’t doing either one of us any good, rather like glazed doughnuts, the occasional cigarette, or a three-day-long video-game-playing binge, but I didn’t want to give it up because then I’d have to go out there and find a real relationship, which felt like entirely too much work.

He pulled out my chair, and I slid onto my seat. I felt out of step, like I was clapping on the down beat, and couldn’t quite get the rhythm of the room. I noticed that people at surrounding tables were covertly watching us. This was bad.

The hostess put our menus on the corner of the table and stepped back. She was younger than me by a couple of years. She had that fresh-faced enthusiasm that could only be found on a person who hadn’t been paying their own rent for very long.

She glanced between us, and then with a soft squeak, she stepped back, turned on her heel, and hurried away. The early warning system inside of me grew insistently louder.

Jeremy picked up the two champagne glasses and handed me one. I debated downing it, sensing that liquid courage was going to be required. He lifted his in a toast. I wished he’d sit down. It felt as if he was looming over me.

“Annabelle, you’re my best friend,” he said. Oh dear, this sounded like the opening of a speech. That couldn’t be good. Usually we just said, “Look at us,” clinked glasses, and down the hatch the beverage went. We didn’t do speeches.

“And you’re mine,” I said. I lifted my glass, indicating the toast was over. But he didn’t get the message. In fact, he looked as if he was just warming up.

“I know,” he said. “Despite the fact that we got married too young and you had that episode with what’s his name, we’re still each other’s plus one.”

I stared at Jeremy. That “episode” was my second marriage. Jeremy knew the BD’s name, but even now, three years after my divorce, he still refused to say it. I knew he’d been in denial about the whole thing, but it seemed significant at the moment that he couldn’t say his name or mention my marriage.

“You mean my marriage to Greg?” I asked. I blinked innocently.

He made a face as if a fly had just flown into his mouth. He waved his hand dismissively and continued on.