“Ian,” she replied, “have you ever opened your heart to me?” She jabbed a finger in his face. “Phil has.”

“So why are you here?” he said, his voice breaking. His hands were at his sides with the palms turned toward her—ready to catch mercy if it were thrown his way. “Why are you here if he means so much to you?”

“Because I keep hoping that one day you can make me feel like it wouldn’t be a risk to open my heart to you,” she replied, taking his hands and wrapping them around her waist, holding him now and speaking into his chest, which was bare and smelled of tar and sweat. “But how can I when you call me a whore?” She pulled away and stepped back two paces as she felt herself becoming weak again. “Ian, until you can look me in the eye and tell me you’ll respect me … and that you’ll leave the past alone and judge me by the goodness I always try to show you, I’ll remain with Phil. Can you look me in the eye and do that?”

He looked away quickly, scared by what he saw reflected in her pupils—himself, or a version thereof, trying to look at her through different lenses. To humanize her would make it too easy to forgive her. And forgiveness was the first step to redemption. He was afraid of that. It would make him vulnerable. Bitterness had served him well as a strong defense.

“Let this be the last time,” he said, walking away from her. There was a gun beneath the bed. In a suitcase. A Ruger nine millimeter. Black handle with chrome barrel. Loaded. Two clips. With fifteen rounds each. “Leave now … I’m beginning to fucking hate you.”

“This is goodbye,” she said. “I hope you know that.”

She began to button her shirt. He lit another cigarette and leaned out the window. At the water’s edge, giant cranes rusted on thirty-foot legs, hooks dangling from their arms like hands with broken wrists. Was it true? Is this really the last time? As the smoke filled his chest he felt his heart shudder, then spark, then spin. Then it fell through his body in a whining spiral, a helicopter gunship downed by fire.

I made her this way, he said to himself. It’s not her fault. He was thinking now of her first return to Paris—of how much she’d changed just a year later. She was worldly and confident. Sexually experienced. They fucked the first night. He wanted to make love but she didn’t want to do more than fuck. She told him that. Placed her hand over his mouth and said that, when he told her that he loved her. Love, she said, meant entanglement. Which was why she was single—and would always be. You’re a man, she said, when he tried to discuss it … you should understand … we know how we feel about each other … fucking other people shouldn’t change that … sex is just release … so let’s be open … lies are too hard to live with.