There’d be no need to find a roommate. Within three days, I’d have what became a career-ending crash. I might have recovered from the physical fallout, but losing my one outlet put my mental health over the edge. It wasn’t just the crash, but the death, the trial, the acquittal, Luke, everything. The crash was the straw, but it was only a straw. Without my normal endorphin dose, my panic attacks soon became so debilitating that I went home to live with my parents.

The stakes with G are so much lower, I remind myself now, nursing my glass of wine. I plan it in my head so I won’t forget once he’s here, so that smelling him and feeling his touch won’t shatter my resolve. I get clear on my own agenda: I will end this, but first, I will tell him what really happened to me. I just need him to know. He showed me his, I’m showing him mine. And then I will say, thanks for the memories. No more tango. Of any variety. I’m picturing sad smiles and a final kiss. A clean breakup for a relationship that never was, a proxy for the conversation I didn’t get to have with Luke.

He comes in, and though he’s not apologetic about being late, he looks unexpectedly happy to see me.

“Tiger,” he says, pulling me out of my seat and into his arms, “I missed you.” He kisses my neck just below my ear, which sends a spasm of desire through my stomach. He’s not usually so affectionate in public. “Scoot over,” he says and joins me on my side of the booth. He nods to the waiter for a glass of what I’m having.

It’s hard being so close. I’d imagined this conversation with him sitting across from me, the table between us.

“How are you? How was Ushuaia?”

“It was good. Listen, I need to say something to you.”

The waiter returns with lightning speed and sets down a glass of wine that G takes a sip of.

“Anything, sweetheart,” he says, taking my hands in his. I’m unmoored. I’d imagined him surly and defensive, as though somehow the mood of this mercurial man would have remained entirely unchanged since he’d walked out my door five days before.

“I’m sorry I was being so pushy about things. I’m sorry I pried. The last time we saw each other . . . I had no right.” Even though, I think, I didn’t ask you the half of what I’m wondering about: your children, for instance.