Valerie nods, knowing she should move on. Instead, she presses him. "What will she say? . . . If she finds out?"

"I don't know," he replies. "I can't even think about that right now. . ."

"But should you?" Valerie says. "Should we talk . . . about it?"

Nick bites his lower lip and says, "Okay. Maybe we should."

She gives him a blank stare, indicating that it is his conversation to begin.

He clears his throat and says, "What do you want to know? I will tell you anything you want to know."

"Are you happy?" she asks-one of the questions she vowed not to ask. She did not want this night to be about his marriage. She wanted it to be about them, only. But such a thing is not really possible. She knows this.

"I am now. At this moment. With you."

She is flattered by this answer-she is overjoyed overjoyed by it. But it is not what she's asking and she does not permit the evasion. "Before you met me," she says, her stomach in knots. "Were you happy by it. But it is not what she's asking and she does not permit the evasion. "Before you met me," she says, her stomach in knots. "Were you happy before before you met me?" you met me?"

Nick sighs, indicating the complexity of the question. "I love my kids. I love my family." He gives her a sideways glance. "But am I happy?. . . No. Probably not. Things are . . . complicated right now."

She nods, recognizing that the conversation they are having is one she would have scorned before now. She has heard cliched versions of it many times before-in movies and from acquaintances and so many places that no one example comes to mind. She can hear it, though, she can picture the "other woman" asking hopeful questions, pretending to be concerned, all the while plotting her coup. The man playing the victim, actually believing believing that he is the victim, when he is the only one breaking promises. And always before, she has thought, with respect to the cheater: grow up, be a man, suck it up or get a divorce. But now. Now she is asking questions, looking for shades of gray, explanations, loopholes in her once ironclad conscience. that he is the victim, when he is the only one breaking promises. And always before, she has thought, with respect to the cheater: grow up, be a man, suck it up or get a divorce. But now. Now she is asking questions, looking for shades of gray, explanations, loopholes in her once ironclad conscience.

Nick continues earnestly. "And I just can't help the way I feel about you . . . I just can't."

"And how is that?" she asks, before she can stop herself.

"I'm falling . . ." he starts. Then he swallows and takes a deep breath before continuing, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm falling for you."

She looks at him hopefully, thinking that it all sounds so innocent, so simple. And maybe it is. Maybe this is how life works, how the story goes for a lot of people-some of whom are good good people. Her heart pounds and aches at once, as she stares into his eyes and leans toward him. people. Her heart pounds and aches at once, as she stares into his eyes and leans toward him.

What happens next she knows she will always remember, as vividly as any good or bad thing that has ever happened in her life. As much as the day she gave birth to Charlie or the night of his accident or anything in between, whether chronologically or emotionally. Their faces touch, their lips meet in a kiss that begins slowly, tentatively, but quickly becomes urgent. It is a kiss that lasts for hours, continuing as they recline on the couch, then roll to the floor, then move to her bed. It is a kiss that doesn't end until he is inside her, whispering that it is real, this thing between them, and that he has officially, completely fallen.

31.

Tessa I regret saying anything to Dex and Rachel last night," I tell Cate over bacon, eggs, and home fries at Cafe Luka, one of our old Upper East Side haunts. I am hoping that the grease will cure my hangover, or at least put a dent in my nausea, although I know it can't lift my spirits. regret saying anything to Dex and Rachel last night," I tell Cate over bacon, eggs, and home fries at Cafe Luka, one of our old Upper East Side haunts. I am hoping that the grease will cure my hangover, or at least put a dent in my nausea, although I know it can't lift my spirits.

"Why?" Cate asks, taking a sip of grapefruit juice. She makes a face to indicate its sourness, but then drains the glass, moving on to her ice water. Since getting her television gig, she has become obsessed with staying hydrated-which is hard to do given the amount of caffeine and alcohol she consumes.

"Because they'll worry. Because Dex might leak this to my mom. Because they'll never like Nick again . . . And because . . . I just don't want Rachel feeling sorry for me," I say, catching a glimpse of my puffy, bloodshot eyes in the mirrored wall next to the booth. I look away, thinking, I'd cheat on me, too. I'd cheat on me, too.

"She's worried about you," Cate says. "But I don't think she pities pities you." you."

"I don't know. I hated the way she looked at me last night. The way she hugged me when they got in the cab. Like she'd rather be homeless than facing what I'm potentially facing . . ."

Cate reaches out and squeezes my hand, as I realize that I never resent her sympathy, and that I'm always willing to candidly confess any vulnerability, shortcoming, or fear, without ever wishing that I could take it back or revise my story later. As such, my self-image squares neatly with her image of me, no disparity between the two-which makes being in her company sheer comfort and luxury, especially when things are falling apart.

"But aren't you glad you told your brother?" she asks.

"Yes," I say. "I guess I just wish I had waited until I knew exactly what was going on. I could have called him next week-and had a sober conversation with him . . . I'm sure he'd tell Rachel anyway but at least I wouldn't have had to see that look on her face."

Cate rips open a packet of Equal, then changes her mind, pouring white sugar from the table canister directly into her coffee. She stirs, then looks up and says, "Rachel is really nice-but she's such a little Polly Perfect, isn't she?"

"Yes," I say, nodding emphatically. "Do you know, I've never heard her swear? Never heard her bad-mouth Dex in anything other than a generic 'you know how men can be' way. . . Never really heard her complain about her children . . . Not even when Julia had colic."

"You think it's fake?" Cate asks. "Or is she really that happy?"

"I don't know. I think she's guarded, for sure . . . I think she has a big filter," I say. "But I also think she and Dex just have one of those lofty marriages. Those perfect relationships."

Cate gives me a look that conveys hope. Hope that such a thing is out there for her. It occurs to me that she once felt this way about my marriage.

"Look. Don't get me wrong," I say. "I want my brother to be happy. I want Rachel to be happy . . . But I can't help being a little sickened by them. I mean, did you see how they were holding hands? On barstools? Who holds hands on barstools? It's awkward ..." I imitate her by reaching my hand out and holding air with an adoring expression. Then I say, "I thought she was going to pass out when Dex confessed their affair."

"You mean the one we all knew about anyway?" Cate says, laughing. "You think she gave him shit later?"

"I doubt it. I think they probably went home and made out. Gave each other massages. Whatever. It can be so draining being around couples like that," I say, realizing that jealousy takes a lot out ofyou.

"Look, Tess," Cate suddenly says, her expression becoming somber. "I know you're scared. I know that's why you aren't calling April back. But Dex is right. . . You really need to confront this head-on. Worrying about it is so much worse than the truth . . . And look, maybe it's nothing. Maybe Nick is getting a bum rap here."

"Maybe," I say, wondering how I can be so sure of an affair one minute-and just as sure that he would never never cheat on me the next. "And if he cheat on me the next. "And if he is is innocent, then I am the bad guy. Snooping through his things and smearing him like I did last night." innocent, then I am the bad guy. Snooping through his things and smearing him like I did last night."

"You didn't smear him," Cate says. "But yes. . . this really could be a case of paranoia . . . He's probably at home, missing you."

I glance at my watch, picturing Nick in the throes of breakfast with the kids, crossing my fingers that he is engaged in the moment. That even if he's unhappy with some of the details of our life, the discontent will pass and things will work out in the long run. This is my desperate, hungover wish. discontent will pass and things will work out in the long run. This is my desperate, hungover wish.

"Could you call April now? Please?" Cate says urgently.

I hold her gaze and nod slowly, thinking of all the times that Cate has encouraged me to do something I'm too scared or weak to do on my own, including that first phone call to Nick so long ago, thinking how different my life would be right now if I hadn't followed her advice. Then I pull out my phone and dial one of the few numbers I know by heart. April answers on the first ring, saying my name with a telling note of anticipation.

"Hi, April," I say, holding my breath, steeling my heart.

"Are you having a good time?" she asks, either stalling or prioritizing phone etiquette over everything else.

"Yeah. It's always good to be back in the city," I say, my voice becoming fake, wishing it were Cate on the verge of giving me bad news. I look across the table as she rests her fork on her plate, her expression of sick dread and suspense mirroring the way I feel.

"So," April says. "You got my text last night?"

"Yes," I say. "I did."

She begins to stammer, offering a rehearsed preamble about her duty as my friend to tell me what she's about to tell me.

"Okay," I say, my stomach in knots. "Go ahead."

April exhales into the phone and then, speaking as quickly as she can, says, "Romy saw Nick over at Longmere School. Yesterday afternoon."

I feel the tension drain from my shoulders, feeling profound relief that this could, in fact, be about private school rumors, and nothing else. I have never confirmed our intention to apply to Longmere for Ruby, and I can tell it is a source of intrigue among my so-called friends, perhaps because they want their own choices validated by my eagerness to get Ruby in.

I clear my throat and say, "Well, I did tell him the ball was in his court on the school front . . . " I nearly consider telling her that I knew he was going over to the school but don't want to risk being caught in a lie, and fear that Nick might have said something to contradict this story. So instead I say, "Good for him for being proactive. He must have set up a tour. Or a talk with the head of admissions. Or maybe he actually submitted our application. Wishful thinking..."

"Yes-but. . ."

"But what?" I say, feeling a stab of intense loyalty to Nick, and simultaneous disdain for April.

"But... he didn't seem to be on a tour."

My silence is loud as she waits, then continues. "He was with Valerie Anderson."

Despite being clear on her implication, my head is still foggy. "What do you mean, with with her?" her?"

"They were in the parking lot," she says. "Together. With her son, Charlie. He was putting Charlie in the backseat of her car."

"Okay," I say, trying to get my head around the image, trying to find a logical explanation for it.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"What do you mean, you're sorry? What are you trying to say?" I ask, feeling my annoyance escalate.

"I'm not trying to say say anything," April says. "I just thought you should know... I thought you should know that Romy said it looked . . . well. . . anything," April says. "I just thought you should know... I thought you should know that Romy said it looked . . . well. . . odd. . . odd. . . the way they were standing together." the way they were standing together."

"And how was that?" I snap. "How were they standing!" standing!"

"Well. . . like a couple," she says reluctantly.

Doing my best to control my voice, keep it from shaking, I say, "I think you both are jumping to a pretty dire conclusion."

"I'm not jumping to any conclusions," she says. "I realize it could be perfectly innocent. He could have gone to see the school to, like you said, investigate it for Ruby, and while there, he could have just run into Valerie . . . in the parking lot."

"What other scenario could could there be?" I ask, indignation washing over me. there be?" I ask, indignation washing over me.

When she doesn't answer, I continue, becoming strident. "That my husband had an inappropriate rendezvous in the Longmere parking lot? I mean, April, I'm no expert on affairs, but I can think of a lot of better places . . . Like a motel. Or a bar . . ."

"I'm not saying he's having an affair," April says with a note of panic, clearly aware that I am royally pissed. She clears her throat and furiously backtracks. "I'm sure Nick would never develop an inappropriate relationship with a patient's mother."

"No. He would not," I say boldly. "He would not do that with anyone." anyone."

Cate perks up in her seat, giving me a "you go, girl" smile, pumping one fist in the air.

More awkward silence passes as April says, "You're not mad at me, are you?"

"No. Not at all," I say curtly, stiffly, wanting her to know just how mad I am. Wanting her to know that I think it is vastly uncool that she would perpetuate a rurnor about my husband. That she would ruin my weekend with her fear-mongering, rumor-spreading, meddlesome ways. I almost tell her that maybe she is the one who should take a hard look at her life, consider what might be missing, what void she is trying to fill.

"Okay. Well. Good," April says, continuing to babble. "Because I would never want to start trouble . . . I j u s t . . . I just would want you to tell me if you saw Rob with anyone . . . Even if it was perfectly innocent... I just think that's what friends are for. We girls need to stick together . . . look out for one another."

"I appreciate it. And you can tell Romy I said thanks, too. But there really is no need for concern." Then I say a terse good-bye and hang up, looking across the table at Cate.

"What happened?" she asks, her eyes wide, her long lashes still layered with black mascara from last night.

I give her the scoop, waiting for her reaction.

"I think there is a good explanation here. I think that's a lot of circumstantial bullshit. And I think your friend April sounds like an ass."

I nod, pushing my plate away.

"What do you do you think?" she asks carefully. think?" she asks carefully.

"I think... I think I need to go home," I say, my head swimming.

"Today?" she says, looking disappointed, but supportive.

"Yes," I say. "I don't think this can wait... I need to talk to my husband."

Valerie She awakens the next morning in something of a blissful stupor, unable to make herself move from the spot on her bed where Nick left her several hours before, kissing her one final time, promising to lock the door on the way out and call her in the morning, even though it was already morning. awakens the next morning in something of a blissful stupor, unable to make herself move from the spot on her bed where Nick left her several hours before, kissing her one final time, promising to lock the door on the way out and call her in the morning, even though it was already morning.

Her eyes still closed, she rewinds the reel to the beginning of the evening, replaying every exquisite detail, all of her senses buzzing, in overdrive. She can still smell his musky scent on her sheets. She can still hear him breathing her name. She can still see the strong lines of his body, moving in the shadows. And she can still feel him everywhere. She rolls over to glance at her clock, just in time to see Charlie tiptoeing past her room, clearly trying to be stealthy.

"Where are you going?" she says, pulling the covers up over her shoulders. Her voice is hoarse, the way that it is after a concert or an evening spent in a loud bar, which is puzzling, because she is quite sure she made no noise last night.

"Downstairs," he says.

"Are you hungry?"

"Not yet," he says, his left hand gripping the wide mahogany banister, one of the features she loves most about this house, especially at Christmas when she decorates it with swaths of garland. "I just wanted to watch some TV?"

She nods, giving him carte blanche permission. He smiles, then disappears from her view, down the stairs. Only then, as she is left staring at her ceiling, does the weight of her actions sink in. She slept with a married married man-a man-a father father of of two two young children. And further, she did so with her young children. And further, she did so with her own own child under the same roof, breaking a cardinal rule of single parenthood, one of her own rules that she has vigilantly followed for six years. She reassures herself that Charlie is a sound sleeper, even after days filled with much less duress than yesterday. Yet that is beside the point, really, because she knows that he child under the same roof, breaking a cardinal rule of single parenthood, one of her own rules that she has vigilantly followed for six years. She reassures herself that Charlie is a sound sleeper, even after days filled with much less duress than yesterday. Yet that is beside the point, really, because she knows that he could could have awakened. He have awakened. He could could have come to her bedroom, pushed open the door held shut only by a small leather ottoman and a heap of their commingled clothing. He could have seen them together, moving under the covers, over the covers, all over the room. have come to her bedroom, pushed open the door held shut only by a small leather ottoman and a heap of their commingled clothing. He could have seen them together, moving under the covers, over the covers, all over the room.

She must be crazy, she decides, to do such a thing. Initiate Initiate it, in fact, both the walk upstairs to her bedroom and the actual moment when it happened, the moment she looked into his eyes and whispered, it, in fact, both the walk upstairs to her bedroom and the actual moment when it happened, the moment she looked into his eyes and whispered, Yes, tonight, please, now. Yes, tonight, please, now.

There is only one other possibility, apart from lunacy-and that is that she, too, is falling in love, although it occurs to her, with equal parts cynicism and hope, that there might not be much of a gulf between the two. She thinks of Lion, the last time she felt anything remotely like this, remembering the temporary insanity of that relationship, how she believed it was real with her whole heart and mind. She wonders if she could be wrong again. Deluded by an intense attraction, a need to fill a void in her life, a search for a father for Charlie.

But she cannot make herself believe that any of these explanations are true, just as she cannot fathom Nick making love to her for the wrong reasons-for lust or conquest or fun. This does not mean that she is oblivious to the immorality of their actions. Or to the risks-the clear and present danger of emotional ruin. She realizes, fully, that this might end badly for her, for Charlie. For Nick and his family. For everyone. everyone.

Yet she also believes to her core, that there is a chance, albeit slim, for a happy ending. That maybe Nick and his wife have a loveless marriage, and that if it ends, everyone will wind up in a better place. She tells herself that she doesn't believe in much, but that she does believe in the essentialness of love, the thing that has been missing from her life. She tells herself that Tessa might be just as miserable married to Nick, that she might be having an affair of her own. She tells herself that their children might be better off with their parents happy and apart, than together and lonely. Above all, she tells herself to trust fate in away she has never trusted before.

Her cell phone rings from her nightstand. She knows, feels, feels, that it is Nick, even before she sees his name light up her screen. that it is Nick, even before she sees his name light up her screen.

"Good morning," he murmurs into her ear.

"Good morning," she says, smiling.

"How are you?" he asks, sounding self-conscious in that universal, morning-after-first-time way.