Dex looks at me again, awaiting an explanation. I can feel Rachel's eyes on me, too, as I hesitate and then say, "I just. . . have a bad feeling lately."

"What do you mean?" Dex asks. "What kind of a bad feeling?"

I swallow and shrug, unable to reply for fear that I will start crying.

"She thinks Nick might be having an affair," Cate says for me.

"Really?" he asks.

I nod, wishing that I had kept things lighthearted, thinking there is something so depressing about having this conversation, drunk, at a bar.

"Tell her it would never never happen," Cate continues with her usual verve and rah-rah conviction. happen," Cate continues with her usual verve and rah-rah conviction.

"I can't see it," Dex says more somberly while Rachel is tellingly silent.

"Are you really worried?" my brother says. "Or is this just one of your weird 'what if questions?"

"I'm . . . moderately worried," I say, hesitating, then deciding it's too late to turn back now. I finish my wine, then confess all my fears, spewing a verbatim account of the mystery text and asking for his candid guy's opinion. "Honestly. Doesn't that sound . . . fishy?"

"Well. . . I'm not wild about the 'thinking of you,'" Dex says, running his hand through his hair. "It definitely sounds like a girl . . . But it really isn't all that damning. Is that all you have on him?"

"That and the fact that he just seems so distant lately . . ."

Rachel nods, a little too quickly for my comfort, as if to say she noticed the same behavior during their recent visit.

"You see it, don't you?" I ask her.

"Well . . . I don't know . . ." she waffles. "Not really . . ."

"C'mon, Rach," I say, relinquishing my usual competitive feelings about our respective marriages. "Tell me. Did he seem odd when you were in town?"

"Not odd," she says, exchanging a telling glance with Dex. Clearly they've discussed us. "He's just . . . a little distracted, by nature . . . And I think he's just really passionate about his work. Which is admirable. But I can see how that could become frustrating for you . . . None of that means he's cheating, though . . . necessarily." Her voice trails off, leaving me with a pit in my stomach.

"Why don't you just ask him?" Dex says, as the bartender serves up their drinks and I order another. "Wouldn't that be easier? Instead of speculating?"

"What?" I say. "Just bust out with, 'Are you cheating on me?'"

Dex shrugs and says, "Why not? Rachel's asked me that question before."

She hits his shoulder and says, "I have not." not."

"Oh, right. That was you you I had the affair with," he says-which marks the very first time he's openly admitted to their early circumstances. He taps her nose as she gives him a scornful look and begins to blush. I had the affair with," he says-which marks the very first time he's openly admitted to their early circumstances. He taps her nose as she gives him a scornful look and begins to blush.

Meanwhile, Cate pretends that this is a shocking revelation. "You two had an affair?" she says, hungry for more scoop.

Dex nods nonchalantly and says, "Pretty much."

"When you were engaged to that other girl?" Cate asks.

"Yep," Dex says while Rachel squirms on her stool and says her husband's name in quiet protest.

"Oh, come on, Rach. What's the big deal?" Dex says. "That was years ago. We're married with two kids. . . And we're all friends again."

Rachel stirs her drink as Cate's eyes widen. "You're still friends with what's-her-name?"

"Darcy," Rachel says, nodding. "Yeah . . . we're friends again."

"Good friends?" Cate says, aghast, finally reaching her shocked threshold. friends?" Cate says, aghast, finally reaching her shocked threshold.

"I guess you could say that," Rachel says with a sheepish look. "Pretty good friends. Yeah."

"They talk every day," Dex says matter-of-factly.

"Are you serious?" Cate says.

"Every day," Dex says. "Multiple times a day. They're planning a vacation together-a cozy foursome . . . I get to go on a ski trip with my ex-fiancee." day," Dex says. "Multiple times a day. They're planning a vacation together-a cozy foursome . . . I get to go on a ski trip with my ex-fiancee."

"Okay. So what's my takeaway supposed to be here?" I ask wryly. "That if Nick is having an affair, perhaps I'll have a new best friend? A travel companion?"

Rachel uncrosses her arms and slides an olive off her toothpick, popping it into her mouth. She chews and swallows, then says, "Yeah, Dex. What, exactly, is is your point?" your point?"

"I dunno," he says, shrugging. "I just thought we were making confessions here. Tess reads Nick's texts. And I ... I cheated on my fiancee with you . . ."

Rachel clears her throat and says, "His point, I think, is that even good guys can cheat. . . But it only happens if they're in the wrong relationship-and only for the right person. And because you and Nick have a great relationship, you really have nothing to worry about."

Dex nods and says, "It might sound like an excuse . . . a justification. But I think it happens to people. But not if they're happy. Not if their relationship is where it should be."

I nod, reaching into my purse for my phone, hoping to see Nick's name in my in-box, feeling relief when I see that he called me twice in the past hour, then slight guilt for talking about him, albeit with family and my best friend.

"Did he call?" Cate asks.

"Yeah. Twice," I say, almost smiling.

"See? He's getting a bad rap. He's home, babysitting the kids, calling you multiple times-" Cate says.

I interrupt her and say, "It's not babysitting babysitting when it's with your own children." Then, just as I'm about to put my phone away, I notice an e-mail from April, the subject line marked when it's with your own children." Then, just as I'm about to put my phone away, I notice an e-mail from April, the subject line marked urgent. urgent. Although I feel certain that it's anything Although I feel certain that it's anything but but urgent, and that it is simply one of her usual e-mails, covering one of our everyday topics-the kids, cooking, tennis, retail decisions, neighborhood gossip-I still click on it and read. urgent, and that it is simply one of her usual e-mails, covering one of our everyday topics-the kids, cooking, tennis, retail decisions, neighborhood gossip-I still click on it and read.

"Shit," I hear myself say aloud, shaking my head as I reread her sentences: Call me ASAP. It's about Nick. Call me ASAP. It's about Nick.

"What?" Cate says.

Speechless, I hand her the phone, and she silently passes it along to Dex as Rachel reads it over his shoulder. They all fall silent, as I look away, my vision growing blurry and my head pounding, as if fast-forwarding directly to the hangover I'm sure to have tomorrow morning.

My husband is having an affair, I think, feeling sure of it now. Someone has seen Nick with a woman. Someone knows something. And the information has worked its way to April, who feels that she has no choice but to tell me. There is no other explanation. Yet a small part of me still clings to the slimmest, fragile hope as I watch Rachel flounder about, grasping at the same slight possibility. I think, feeling sure of it now. Someone has seen Nick with a woman. Someone knows something. And the information has worked its way to April, who feels that she has no choice but to tell me. There is no other explanation. Yet a small part of me still clings to the slimmest, fragile hope as I watch Rachel flounder about, grasping at the same slight possibility.

"It could be anything," she says, her voice soft, worried.

"Like . . . what?" I say.

She gives me a blank stare as Cate tries another reassuring angle. "April is an alarmist. She loves drama. You've said so yourself... It might be circumstantial evidence. Don't jump to conclusions."

"Just call her," Dex says, his eyes flashing, his jaw falling into an angry line as I fleetingly consider who would win in a fight-my husband or brother. "Or call Nick. Call someone, Tess."

"Now?" I say, my heart starting to race, the room spinning.

"Yeah," he says. "Right now."

"At the bar?" Rachel says anxiously. "It's too loud in here."

"Way too loud," Cate agrees, shooting Dex an uneasy look. They commence a discussion of my strategy, who I should call first, and where I should go to have the conversation that could potentially change my life-the ladies' room, another bar, the street, Cate's apartment. I shake my head and slip my phone back into my bag.

"What're you doing?" Dex says.

"I don't want to know," I say, completely aware of how foolish I sound.

"What do you mean?" he asks, incredulous.

"I mean . . . I don't want to know . . . Not now. Not tonight," I say again, surprising myself, right along with the three people who know and love me the most. Other than Nick. Maybe, apparently, including including Nick. Nick.

30.

Valerie Valerie spends the rest of the afternoon with Charlie, doing her best to distract him with some of his favorite things. They make hot fudge sundaes, watch spends the rest of the afternoon with Charlie, doing her best to distract him with some of his favorite things. They make hot fudge sundaes, watch Star Wars, Star Wars, read aloud from read aloud from A Wrinkle in Time, A Wrinkle in Time, and play whimsical duets on the piano. Despite the events of the day, they are having fun-the most satisfying, gratifying brand of parent-child fun. But all the while, she misses Nick, craving his touch and counting down the minutes until she can see him later as they have planned. and play whimsical duets on the piano. Despite the events of the day, they are having fun-the most satisfying, gratifying brand of parent-child fun. But all the while, she misses Nick, craving his touch and counting down the minutes until she can see him later as they have planned.

Now they are finally alone again, Charlie fast asleep upstairs, having literally nodded off in his chicken nuggets. They've just finished their own dinner-linguine and clams from Antonio's that they ate by candlelight-and have retired to the family room where the curtains are drawn, the lights are dimmed, and Willie Nelson is crooning "Georgia on My Mind" from a random mix of mellow songs that she made with Nick in mind. They have not yet touched, but she has the sense that they soon will, that something momentous, irreversible, and potentially life-changing is in the works. She knows that what she is feeling is wrong, but she believes in it-believes in him. him. She tells herself that he would not lead her down this path if he didn't have a plan-if he didn't believe in her, too. She tells herself that he would not lead her down this path if he didn't have a plan-if he didn't believe in her, too.

He reaches out to take her hand and says, "I'm glad he pushed that little brat off those monkey bars."

Valerie smiles. "I know . . . Her mother was very nice, though."

"Yeah?" Nick asks.

"Yeah. Surprisingly so."

"It's always nice when people surprise you for the better," he says, swirling the wine in his glass, then taking a long sip.

She watches him, wondering what he's thinking but unwilling to ask such a sappy question. Instead she says, "How long can you stay?"

He gives her a candid look, clears his throat, and tells her that he has a babysitter-a young girl who thinks nothing of staying up to the small hours of the morning. Then he looks back down at his wine, and says, "Tessa's in New York for the weekend . . . Visiting a friend and her brother."

It is the first time he's directly mentioned his wife in weeks, since their attraction exploded into sexual tension, and the first he's ever ever said her name. said her name.

Tessa, she thinks. she thinks. Her name is Tessa. Her name is Tessa.

The sweet soft-whisper of a name conjures a gentle, mirthful animal lover. The kind of woman who wears brightly colored bohemian scarves, designs jewelry, and breast-fed until her children reached a year, maybe longer. A woman who ice-skates on frozen ponds in the winter, plants forget-me-nots in the spring, goes fishing in the summer, and burns incense year-round. A woman with one dimple or a small gap between her front teeth or some other charming physical quirk.

Valerie realizes suddenly that she subconsciously hoped for a harder, sleeker name, like Brooke or Reese. Or a frivolous, spoiled name, like Annabel or Sabrina. Or a fusty, stodgy one-like Lois or Frances. Or one so commonplace in their generation that it lacked any connotation, like Stephanie or Kimberly. But no-Nick married a Tessa, a name that fills her with unexpected sadness more troubling than the guilt constantly playing at the edges of her mind. A guilt she refuses to examine too closely for fear that it will interfere with what she desperately wants.

Nick touches his bare big toe to hers, their legs outstretched on the coffee table. She squeezes his hand, as if to squelch the guilt and shock that she is capable of doing such a thing. That she is here, like this, with a married man. That she hopes they will soon be touching everywhere, and that maybe, someday, he will belong to her. It is an outlandish, selfish dream, but one that seems frighteningly attainable.

But first, she must tell him about the moment today in the parking lot, the look on Romy's face, an omission she fears might be significant enough to divert the course they are on. So she holds his hand tighter and says, "I have to tell you something."

"What's that?" he says, raising her hand to his mouth, kissing her thumb.

"Today," she says. "In the parking lot after school . . ."

"Hmm-mm?" he says, looking at her, a trace of worry appearing between his brows. He swirls the wine in his glass, then takes a sip.

She feels herself falter, but forges on. "When we were standing by my car . . . I saw Romy. She was watching us. She saw us together."

He nods, looking worried, but pretending not to be as he says, "Well. That figures, doesn't it?"

Valerie isn't sure what he means by this so she says, "Do you think it's a problem?"

Nick nods and says, "It could be."

This is not the answer she hoped for. "Really?" she asks.

He nods and says, "My wife knows her."

"They're friends?" friends?" she asks, horrified. she asks, horrified.

"Not exactly . . . They are more . . . acquaintances," he says. "They have a mutual good friend."

"Do you think it will get back to her?" Valerie asks, wondering how he can stay so calm, why he isn't rushing to the phone to do damage control.

"Maybe . . . Probably. Knowing this town. These women. Yeah, it'll probably get back to Tess eventually . . ."

Valerie turns over the nickname in her mind, no less troubling than the full form of her name. Tess. Tess. A A woman who throws Frisbees to dogs, sings eighties songs into her shampoo bottle, does handstands in the fresh summer grass, wears her hair in French braids. woman who throws Frisbees to dogs, sings eighties songs into her shampoo bottle, does handstands in the fresh summer grass, wears her hair in French braids.

"Are you worried?" she asks, trying to gauge exactly what is going on in his head-and more important, his marriage.

Nick turns to face her, resting one arm along the back of the couch. "Romy didn't see us like this," this," he says, touching her shoulder and leaning in to kiss her forehead. "We were just standing there, weren't we?" he says, touching her shoulder and leaning in to kiss her forehead. "We were just standing there, weren't we?"

"Yeah . . . but how will you explain being there in the first place? At the school with us?" As soon as the question is out, she realizes that they have officially become co-conspirators.

Nick says, "I'll have to tell her that we're friends. That we've become close . . . That Charlie called me when he got hurt at school. And that I came over. As his doctor and your friend."

"Has anything like this ever . . . happened before? Have you ever become close to a patient? Or a patient's family member?" she asks.

"No," Nick says quickly. "Not like this. Nothing like this."