“I just thought I was moving too fast for you,” he says, peering down at his shoes, then dramatically back at me. “And that you didn’t care about me as much as I care about you.”

My entire body is about to revolt. I’ve already grown tired of his need for constant reassurance. He’s always complaining that I’m distant, asking if his emotions scare me. Asking if I faked it, to which I always respond, “Why must you ruin the moment by asking that?”

“I panicked,” he says. “I told you I love you, and you didn’t say it back.”

“Yes, and like I told you then, during sex doesn’t count. Plus last I checked, feeling insecure doesn’t justify kissing someone else.”

“I never know with you,” he says, looking down at his lap. “Trying to detect how you feel is nearly impossible. I just—”

“Damn it, Matías,” I interrupt, and by now I am yelling, “I’m going to New York with you! I’m not an escort, I don’t just let men I don’t care about take me to random cities.” My heart is throbbing. “I told you I was afraid you would hurt me, right? That I wasn’t ready for this?” My voice cracks and my eyes begin to burn.

“In a way,” he says, placing his hand on my thigh and squeezing gently, “it makes me happy that you’re upset.”

I squint at him. “You’re happy that I’m crying?”

“It shows me that you actually care.”

I’m tempted to turn the car around, but instead I reassure him. “Yes, I do care. And maybe it’s not very postmodern of me,” I say, thinking of his open marriage, “but I get jealous. I know we have no claim on each other—”

“We do, though,” he says. “I want us to.”

At this, I begin to soften. By the time we’re on the plane he’s calling me his girlfriend. We’re kissing and drinking tomato juice and even the flight attendant indulges us with sugary smiles. Periodically an image of him kissing Claire flashes in my mind, and I wince. “I just pictured it,” I tell him.

He scrunches his brow, gives me sad eyes. “Don’t,” he says. “It was stupid. It lasted for two seconds and never would’ve happened if I wasn’t drunk.”

“Are you sure you didn’t sleep with her?” I ask. “Because the thing is, you didn’t answer when I called this morning at ten, and I didn’t hear back from you until twelve thirty.”

“I was at breakfast!”

“For two and a half hours?”

“If I slept with her, why would I even mention that I kissed her?”