“I’m not!” he protests, grabbing my arm and squeezing it. “Call her now, she’ll tell you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I was being evasive this weekend, yes. But Claire has nothing to do with it.” He sighs, then stares at the ground before making eye contact again. “It’s my wife. She wants to get back together, and I needed time to think about it, for my son’s sake.”

Now I feel embarrassed. I feel low. “If that’s true,” I say, “then of course you should save your marriage.”

He shakes his head. “But I decided that what I want is you. Besides, I think my son would be better off with happy, divorced parents than with miserable married ones.”

I think of my own parents, how relieved I was when the fighting stopped. Back in New York I’d often wake up in the middle of the night certain I could hear them yelling at each other, only to peer out my window onto a sidewalk quarrel.

I look at Matías. I fear I’m being paranoid, that I’m projecting my own insecurities onto him. He takes my hand—he must sense that I’m softening. “I was a jerk for being so distant,” he says. “I should’ve called. But I’m not cheating. I promise you nothing like this will happen again.”

“I need some time,” I tell him.

“I’ll give you ten years, mi amor, if that’s what you need.”

Two days later I’m still thinking about Chicago and that extra night. Finally I call someone, a mutual friend of mine and Claire’s.

“Hold on,” she says, “you’re still dating him?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I had no idea.”

“So he was with Claire in Chicago?”

“Of course. They’ve been seeing each other for a while now.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she says. “I would’ve told you myself, but I had no idea you were still together.”

In that moment, I am surprised that rather than feeling angry or sad, I feel relieved.

My phone beeps with a call from Matías, which I ignore. He calls back, again and again. In between comes a call from a familiar D.C. number. And that one I do answer.

“Ahlan wa Sahlan!” says my mother. I take a deep breath as the sound of her voice courses through my veins. “How are you, mama?” she asks.

Over the next hour I pour out everything, collapsing the distance between us that I’ve spent the last six months working to create. “Habibti,” she says, and again I feel her voice run through me. I can tell she’s relieved that it’s a man I’m torn up over, not a woman. “Yalla, come home for a few days,” she says. “I’ll take care of you.”