Dave kept his arms wrapped around me and walked me backward down the hall to the bed, easing us both down onto the duvet. I held on to him, closing my eyes against his neck and smelling his familiar smell. Behind his ear his hair was wet from my tears. I closed my eyes as he trailed his fingers over my lips and kissed my forehead. I remember at some point hearing him whisper into my ear that he was going to make everything okay. I was emotionally drained and was still nursing my Ambien hangover. Exhausted, I slept.

When I woke up, I could see the daisies on the counter in the kitchen in a beautiful crystal vase. It wasn’t mine; Dave must have run out to the store and picked it up. I looked at the clock—it was three. I closed my eyes and drifted off some more. Keeping my eyes open was too exhausting. I dozed again, and when I woke up it was dark outside. From my bed I could stare down the hall and see twinkling Christmas lights strung across the ceiling, looping around my furniture and houseplants, casting bits of flickering light on the ceilings and walls.

Dave came into the room, walking slowly, as if he thought if he made any sudden movements I’d bolt. He had shaved and was dressed in the kind of blazer and shirt I’d seen him wear to church.

“Hey, baby. You slept for a long time.” He looked at me. “You’re so beautiful. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world to me.”

His hazel eyes held mine, and he made his way to my side of the bed and sat down. Lucy immediately jumped up on the wooden nightstand and hopped over onto his lap. She was such a traitor. He started stroking her and I could hear her purring. We sat there for a couple of minutes while he stroked her. At some point he took my hand, and I felt the pressure of his thumb stroking the inside of my palm.

He gave me a little squeeze. “Please don’t ruin this with your crazy thoughts. I love you, Dani.”

I wanted to believe him. I remembered the way his face looked when he pulled me toward him to kiss him for the first time. I loved that look. I loved the love notes, the e-mails he tossed off saying he was thinking about me. I remembered how, after I vaguely mentioned I loved Paul Auster, he’d surprised me with an early copy of his new novel. The daisies, the twinkling lights, the prayers he promised for us at St. Monica’s—he did so many things to make me feel special.

“I’m thirsty. I’ll be right back,” I told him, extricating myself from his arms and walking slowly into the kitchen.

“I would have brought you something to drink,” he called after me.