“Sure,” Eddie says, affably. “She’s a big reader, too; I bet you’d get along great.”

“Where did you meet?”

“A study group, believe it or not.”

Far off, I hear humming. Maybe I’ll meet my husband in a study group too. He’ll smile at me across the table. He’ll walk me home. We’ll go on a date and eat Thai food. He’ll kiss me at the door. I’ll have the charming, wholesome relationship I’ve always longed for.

When my Little Italy is ready, Eddie sets it down in front of me. “I will have more coffee,” I tell him. “Cream, please.”

Talking to Eddie makes me feel sneaky. Like I’m getting away with something by presenting myself as a wholesome girl capable of wholesome love when I’m a dirty degenerate, a con artist who used to fuck a married man—a man with children, no less. That I’ll end up with a Midwestern Eddie and become a book-loving wife is a laughable idea. And yet, in New Haven, never say never. Maybe here I can start over as an entirely new person, relive my life, remap my choices.

I pick up my fork and dig in. In New Haven, I eat with gusto. Here, I eat tortillas. I eat eggs. I eat sausage. I eat provolone cheese, hash browns, and hot cherry peppers. I can feel my scrawny body filling out, growing healthy and strong. I feel alive. I eat, I eat, I eat.

* * *

Hours later, reading by the pool, I have a chance to practice my social skills. When I look up, a dark-skinned guy is pointing to the lounge chair two inches from mine. This is only significant because there are thirty other chairs around the pool, all empty.

“Taken?” His hair, also dark, is curly. His eyes are black as tar. He’s my age, maybe a few years older.

I consider flirting. Did you mean the chair, or me? Instead, I wave cheerfully. “All yours.”

He tosses down his pool bag, and I study his body. Awesome shoulders. Impeccable arms. Flat stomach. But what I like most is his towel. It’s a Mighty Morphin Power Rangers beach towel, circa 1993.

Settling in, he sighs. Above our heads, the sun is a fireball, beating down mercilessly. “Where is everyone?” he asks. “It’s a perfect pool day.”

“Too humid,” I reply. “But I like it this way, white-hot and wet.” As soon as the words are out, I cringe. White-hot and wet? Gross.

We sit side by side under the scorching sun. Soon, we’re both drenched in sweat. I’m desperate to jump into the pool but feel exposed in my skimpy bathing suit. Since when? I ask myself. I’m tongue-tied, not sure what to say, the right way to engage. All I know is how to invite him upstairs, slide off my bikini bottoms, let the afternoon unfold.