She was very impressed with his work and academic credentials, but what impressed her most of all was that he hadn’t used them to attract her; he didn’t wear them on his chest like medals, as most men would have. He just approached her like an ordinary guy, just a bredda who liked her off and wanted her to like him off too. And he didn’t solicit advertisement from her either. He didn’t ask her about her position at Umbra or where she went to school; neither did he engage her in name-dropping, although he could have littered a field with names like John Barnes, Derek Walcott, Euzhan Palcy, and Garth Fagan. He just liked her. Basic her. Stripped down. Base model without the options. Plain bullah cake without even a piece of pear.

Fuck, she was still in love.

Diego had made some good points during their conversation. “How would you feel,” he’d asked, “if the shoe was on the other foot and you didn’t know how he was feeling about you? And he was involved with somebody else? How would you feel if you were really feeling a connection with a man and then he came and crapped some reality on your little romantic fantasy—you know, like his woman turned up. And then while you were feeling hurt because you realized that the other person was more important than you, he accused you of some stupid shit? How would you react?

“The man was right,” he added. “Look whose rock you’re wearing.” Then he said something that made her feel very small.

“Mi hija, your relationship with Lou-Lou is like your relationship with Umbra. You are not there because you wanna be. You are there because of status. In both cases you really want to do something else that you’re scared of doing because stupid appearances mean too much to you. Ask yourself this question about your man and your job. Do you love them? If you say no, ask yourself why you remain. And if the answer is too embarrassing, you do not have to answer aloud.”

They didn’t talk about it anymore. Diego left hours later.

Just as she was about to call Lewis, he called her and invited her over for dinner.

As she’d requested, the driver woke her up when the bus reached her stop. A low murmur vibrated through her bones as she alighted on the sidewalk, and she looped her scarf around her head against the cold. She seemed frail as she walked, frail and unsure, her usually confident stride replaced by ginger steps.

Lewis got out of the Range Rover and walked toward her. Greeting her warmly with a hug and kiss, he led her by the hand to the vehicle.

“Are you okay?” he asked, noticing her quietness.

“Yeah … kinda,” she replied with a forced smile. “I think I’m probably just hungry.”

“Well, I cooked,” he said. “Poached salmon.”

He served dinner in the kitchen of his rambling house, and they sat on stools at a small high table next to a picture window that framed the sundeck and the covered pool. The backyard was professionally landscaped—islands of shrubs in lakes of grass. There were no leaves on the ground.