“It’s not so bad. Same couch, I see.” He takes a test bounce on the cushions, covered with a sheet he flips back to show off the brown plaid. “Ken said I could take the place furnished or, if I agreed to get rid of it all, I could bring in my own stuff. It’s all in storage right now.”

My back stiffens and my shoulders tense. I guess since we’re married, everything I own belongs to Ken as much as it does to me, but none of it’s from his childhood. It’s not his history. Not his stuff. His name isn’t even on the title to this house. He has no right to offer anything away.

“Did he?”

Christian shrugs and smiles, patting the couch again. He slides me a sly grin. “I don’t know, though. I have fond memories of this couch.”

“What are you doing here?” I pitch my voice low and look over my shoulder, although I know Ken hasn’t followed. Again, my hands turn into fists.

“I told you—”

“No. What are you doing here,” I say again. “Why are you here, Christian? And don’t give me some bullshit excuse about needing a place to stay.”

He stands. I tense again and take a step away from him. I imagine his hands on me, gripping. His mouth on mine.

Christian moves past me and into the kitchen, where he tugs open the harvest gold refrigerator. It hasn’t been plugged in for years. He finds the switch for the under-cabinet fluorescents.

“Your parents used to store beer and liquor out here, remember? I told you it was because this was where they came to swing with their friends, and you bit me on the shoulder. Left a mark. I bet I was right, though, wasn’t I?”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“What’s disgusting about Doris and Sidney getting it on with the neighbors down the street on a Saturday night out here in the carriage house while the kids are fast asleep—”

“Shut up,” I snap.

He holds out his hands in a gesture of fake apology. “Nobody likes to think about their parents getting it on, but guess what? They all do. Or else nobody would ever become a parent in the first place.”

“You’re back in your hometown. Why don’t you move in with your parents?”

His eyes narrow. “Why would you assume my parents are still alive?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, chastened. “I lost my parents too.”

“I know,” Christian says. “You told me that the last time we slept together.”

I don’t want to remember the last time we slept together. I don’t want to think about how I’d mourned the loss of my parents within a month of each other. So many bad decisions that haunt me every day.

“Are you going to tell me you just happened to find an ad for this place, when I didn’t even know Ken had listed it?”

“Coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence, Christian.”

He presses his lips together for a second or so before letting them curve again. That particular smile has haunted me for years, because this one is not sly or mocking or arrogant or even charming. This one is genuine.