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  When I came to, I was standing with my feet on two different stairs, my fingers clenching the banister, my toes curling in my shoes.

  Nick, you bastard. You did love me. I know you did. And I loved you. But it wasn’t enough. Why wasn’t it enough?

  Swallowing against the lump in my throat— which surprised me, I hadn’t cried over Nick in years, nor any man since—I exited the building, locking the front door behind me. On shaky legs I walked to my car, a red Volkswagon Beetle, and slid carefully into the driver’s seat. Pretty much everything had to be done carefully in this dress. Careful, that’s a good word for tonight too. I’d be careful not to rip my dress, careful not to let my emotions get the best of me, and careful not to let the past impose itself on the present.

  Or his hand impose itself on my ass.

  The thought popped into my head before I could help it, the kind of dirty little joke Nick would have made himself if he could read my mind, which I often thought he could. He got my mostly-classy-yet- secretly filthy sense of humor perfectly, and I’d missed the way he could make me laugh.

  What? No. N-O. I’m over him, and I can handle this.

  But the danger in approaching Nick Lupo without a game plan was apparent, and I could see myself falling back under his spell if I wasn’t prepared.

  A script, I thought as I made my way to Corktown, where The Burger Bar was located. That’s what I needed, a script. Nothing left to chance, no awkward silence upon meeting again into which one of us might be tempted to insert an inside joke, a remember-when, a penis.

  Oh my God. Stop. It.

  After some hard thought, I came up with five different opening approaches.

  First, there was Coy, which would be delivered with fingers steepled over the heart: Oh, is this your place? I didn’t realize!

  Then there was Chummy, served best with an elbow to the gut: Hey, you! Congrats on all your success! I’ve been wanting to come in here, but I’ve been so busy!

  Perhaps Nostalgic would work, accompanied by a little eyelash batting: Gee, remember that night I gave you my virginity out in your family’s orchard? Yeah, that was sweet. Is it too late to ask you for something in return?

  Then there was Honesty, which would come with foot shuffling and a wry smile on top: Look, I know we fucked things up really badly between us but Tony Whack’s daughter wants you to cater midnight snacks at her engagement party and if you say no I’m dead.

  Finally, I had Desperate: I need you. I’ll do anything you want if you’ll do this for me. This would most likely be accompanied by a panty-drop and a side of 69.

  God help me.

  Despite the heat of the night, and the fact that my windows were down—I’m not a big fan of AC—I shivered. In all honesty, I wasn’t even sure what Nick’s reply would be to something like that. Did he still think about me that way? Once upon a time, he couldn’t keep his hands off me, but that was B.V. Before Vegas. I couldn’t even guess what he’d been thinking that weekend, let alone how he’d feel now.

  I locked the car and dropped my keys into my purse, my shoulders stiff with tension. Thinking about the past had me all worked up—I’m the kind of person who remembers things vividly, with every sense. For me, memories are visceral, evocative things, full of tastes and smells and sounds, and for years I’d been careful to keep certain ones sewn up inside me. But today I felt my memories of Nick Lupo pushing at the seams, their contents threatening to burst—the sound of his voice, the smell of his skin, the taste of his kiss, the feeling of him inside me.

  My stomach went momentarily weightless, and for the millionth time I wondered if Nick really had been that good at sex or if I only thought so because he was my first and I had no one to compare him to at the time. I mean, how good could a twenty-one-year-old guy actually be? Probably my memory was just doing that thing where the farther back in time something is, the rosier it seems in your mind. I bet there were plenty of times where he put his own pleasure first and ignored my needs.

  I just couldn’t think of any.

  Looking both ways, I crossed Michigan Avenue, stepped up onto the curb and put a hand over my chest, a vain attempt to calm my fluttering heart. I had to stop thinking about sex with Nick; it wasn’t helping. I needed to focus on the present. Stick to my goal.

  Remain calm. Cool. Unemotional.

  The Burger Bar’s vertical neon sign hung to my right, and I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other and move in its direction. As I got closer, I heard the music being played inside and smelled grilling meat and frying potatoes.

  Five more steps and I’d be at the entrance. Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled the glass door open and stepped inside.

  The cool rush of air conditioning hit me as I removed my sunglasses and looked around, taking in the details as my eyes adjusted. It was smaller than I’d expected. White honeycomb tiles on the floor, a bar to my left and small booths lining the wall on my right. Dark wood. Chrome. Chalkboards on the walls. “Folsom Prison Blues” playing on the jukebox in the corner. I almost smiled.

  He still likes Johnny Cash.

  The place was crowded, every booth full and every seat at the bar taken. The vibe was young and fun, unfussy but authentic. Somehow it felt both urban and country—the kind of place where you knew you’d get real food and have a good time, see and be seen,

  feel both hip and virtuous since the chalkboard nearest the door boasted about Nick’s farm-to-table philosophy. The one right next to it said If you are racist, sexist, homophobic, or an asshole, don’t come in. Otherwise, welcome.

  At least it didn’t say “or my ex-wife.”

  Servers moved quickly, carrying trays laden with baskets lined with blue and white striped tissue paper, on which rested thick, delectable hamburgers and piles of thick, seasoned fries, making my mouth water. Despite everything, pride bloomed in my chest. Lick My Plate was a ridiculous show—who really cares if chefs are hot as long as they know what they’re doing?—but it had given Nick a huge boost. He’d always wanted this, his own place, things done his way. Looking around, I could see that he’d put himself into every detail here, from the design to the menu to the music. When I heard the door open behind me, I took a few tentative steps forward so I wouldn’t be in the way of entering customers.

  “Coco Thomas. I’d know that ass anywhere.”

  I spun around to find Nick Lupo just inches from me, so close I could see the tiny crescent moon scar above his left eyebrow, a remnant of his scrappy childhood. He looked the same—thick dark hair, although threaded with a few surprising strands of gray at the temples, light brown eyes framed by ungodly long lashes, that wide mouth hooking into a grin at my expense.

  I wanted to say something, but at the sight of him my lungs had ceased functioning, holding on to the breath trapped inside them as if it were the last one they’d ever get.

  Damn. Why’d he have to look so good?

  Nick was dimple-cute when he smiled and sexy-as-sin when he pinned you with that stare, the one that said Fuck Dinner, The Only Thing I Want To Eat Is You And I’m Starving. He could go from boyishly charming to hot and demanding in a heartbeat, and right then I wanted that heartbeat to be mine.

  His dark, expressive brows rose. “Speechless, cupcake? That’s a first. Or have you run out of names to call me?”

  “Hi,” I managed. One word, but it felt like a huge victory.

  “Hi.”

  When I couldn’t get another word out, he laughed. “OK, come on.” Taking my arm, he steered me over to the bar, every eyeball in the place trained on us. “It’s about time you came in here. Let’s find you a seat.”

  He’s touching me. He’s touching me. He’s touching me. Inside my head, a voice repeated the phrase over and over again. I’d seriously underestimated the impact his physical presence would have on me after all this time. My skin prickled with awareness of him, as if my body remembered the insane chemistry we had and it was just waking up from a seven-year sleep.

  Nick led me around the far end of the bar, where there was an empty stool I hadn’t been able to see from the door. “Sit down right there and let me look at you.”

  I slid onto the seat and crossed my legs, placing my purse on the bar. I kept my movements slow and deliberate, so as not to betray how flustered I felt. “Thank you.” There, two more words. Hallelujah.

  Planting his feet wide, Nick crossed his muscular, tattooed arms and shook his head. “Damn if I don’t have the hottest ex-wife on the planet.” He spoke loud enough to attract the attention of other patrons, on purpose, of course. Nick loved a good show. Immediately I noticed more heads turning in my direction. Cell phone cameras aimed. Whispers and stares. I imagined the headlines on TMZ: Hot Chef’s Secret Past Revealed, Ex-Wife Disappointing. I patted my hair self-consciously.

  “Ex wife?” said the guy on the stool next to me, a hipster type with a receding ginger hairline and huge, bushy Abe Lincoln sideburns. He swiveled his stool to face us and lifted his thick glass beer mug toward Nick. “I didn’t know you were married.”

  “I was, Lou. I was. To this vision right here.” Nick gestured to my face. “Tell me, do I not have the most beautiful ex-wife in existence? I mean, how many guys can say that? Wait.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Wait. Are there more of us? How many husbands have you collected so far?”

  I smiled with tight lips. I would not let him provoke me. “Just one.”

  He touched his chest, which was hugged by a tight black Burger Bar t-shirt, sleeves tight around his biceps. I noticed he wore a silver Shinola watch, which momentarily distracted me because I’d always been really turned on by Nick’s thick strong wrists and forearms. “Whew. For a moment there, I didn’t feel special. I mean, since you left me, you’ve had time for…” He checked the watch. “At least thirty more marriages as long as ours.”

  Fuck it, I was provoked. “Left you! You left me, remember? In a hotel room in Vegas? On our wedding night?”

  Lou’s eyebrows rose above the rim of his mug, and he looked at Nick as if waiting for an explanation. But I wasn’t about to give him a chance to defend himself. Fuck calm, cool, and unemotional—he wasn’t pinning this on me. “Or have you forgotten the note you left me on the nightstand, right next to your ring? ‘This was a mistake.’ That ring a bell?”

  “I apologized, didn’t I? You’re the one who filed for divorce and left for Europe without talking to me, like a stubborn teenager.”

  “Stubborn teenager! You apologized in a text message, Nick. Two words—I’m sorry.” Briefly I put my hands over my ears and took a deep breath. It was seven years too late for this, and I hadn’t come here to fight. “Look, it doesn’t matter anymore. Yes, I filed for divorce and left for Europe without talking to you.

  Because you were right—the marriage was a mistake.”

  Nick shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I disagree. And I tried to tell you that but you divorced me too fast.”

  I fisted my hands in my lap so tight it felt like my fingernails might slice my palms. “We would have divorced anyway, Nick. We were young and stupid.”

  “I was stupid. You were just mad. And I don’t blame you for that.”

  I cocked my head. “But you blame me for other things?”

  The air between us grew charged. Nick leveled me with his eyes. “In the end, it was you that decided we were done.”

  “You cheated on me.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “You lied to me first.”

  “That wasn’t the same.”

  “Wait, you guys lost me.” Lou picked up his beer again and turned to Nick. “Let’s start with you. What did you lie about?”

  “He lied about sex, for one thing.” I crossed my arms, grumpy at the memory. “When we were freshmen in college, he told me he was a virgin like I was.”

  “I had to, or she wasn’t going to sleep with me.” Nick threw his hands up. “I had to have her, Lou. I’m sorry I lied, but I was in love with her and I had to have her. At least I came clean when it was over.”

  Lou nodded, as if he was the arbiter of what was fair in this fight. “OK. Sort of a douchey move, but possibly understandable, give the…circumstances.” He gestured vaguely toward my chest. “And what did you lie about?”

  “Wait a minute, what circumstances?” I sat up taller, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “I think he means the circumstances protruding from your ribcage.” Nick’s grin lit up his face.

  “The legs too,” added Lou. “And the face. Did anyone ever tell you you look like young Lauren Bacall?”

  “Exactly.” Nick shook his head. “I was nineteen and in love with the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. I could not be expected to behave.”

  I blushed, but anger won out a moment later. It was just like Nick to make me mad and then flatter me right into forgiving him. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. That does not excuse you.”

  “Well, you lied about Paris.” He turned to Lou. “Her junior year she told me she hadn’t been accepted to this exchange program she’d always planned on doing. But she’s such a bad liar, I figured out the truth.”

  “I didn’t want to go that year. You didn’t have a problem with me staying behind at the time.” Probably because you spent a good part of that year screwing me from behind.

  “Then the following year she told me she hadn’t even applied, another obvious lie. But she stuck to it, and I had to hear the truth from her friend Mia.”

  “Because I didn’t want to leave you, asshole.” I’d been angry at Mia for weeks about that, but she said she’d only caved and confirmed what Nick suspected when he promised her he’d encourage me to go. Mia thought I was crazy to forego the opportunity to study in Paris for a guy.

  “Leaving me wouldn’t have necessarily meant breaking up. We could have stayed together.”

  “Ha!” I poked him in the chest. “You cheated on me every summer we were apart. You think you’d have been faithful with an ocean between us?”

  Nick’s chin jutted. “I didn’t cheat every summer.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Two out of three. And I bet there was a spring break I don’t know about, and maybe a Christmas vacation, and probably even a Martin Luther King Day too.” I turned to Lou and sniffed, feeling superior. “He can’t keep his hands to himself, he never could.”

  As if to prove my point, Nick’s hand clutched my thigh. “Coco, come on. Two times I kissed other girls, that was all. And you broke up with me so often, I never even knew when we were together and when we weren’t.”

  I removed his hand. “That’s because you were such a flirt.”

  “That last year, I was totally faithful to you. I swear it.”

  “Uh huh, right up until Mia told you about Paris. Then you ran out and screwed someone else.”

  Nick looked away without denying anything or defending himself, and the night of his confession came back to me like a knife to the gut. I’d screamed myself hoarse, slapped his face, and shoved him out of my apartment. Then I threw every gift he’d ever given me out the window into the parking lot. I remembered how he’d watched, silently huddled on the hood of his truck in the dark.

  Lou drained his beer. “Wow, this is really sad, you guys. So then what happened?”

  “We broke up,” I said, teeth gritted. “But the next night he showed up at my apartment with a bottle of whiskey.” And I didn’t say no, like I should have. Like I never could where he was concerned.

  Nick’s eyes met mine. “We got back together.”

  I lifted my chin. “We got drunk is what we got.”

  “We caught the red-eye to Vegas.”

  “We got tattooed, and we got married. Two idiot decisions.”

  Lou watched us, his head moving from side to side like a spectator’s at the French Open. “And then?”

  We stared at each other a moment longer, each of us reliving the pain and pleasure of that insane weekend. What could we say? No matter what, Nick couldn’t deny that he was the one who’d been unfaithful that spring—the act of betrayal that started the whole chain of crazy events. And in a whiskey- tears-and-sex-filled craze, I’d forgiven him, even married him—but then he’d abandoned me in that hotel room. No apology could make up for the hurt, and I sure as hell hadn’t wanted to listen to any explanation.

  For God’s sake, why should I listen to him say that he didn’t love me enough to stay?

  With my parents’ help, I’d quietly taken the necessary steps to divorce him quickly and left for

  Paris. The three of us agreed it to keep it quiet; I wasn’t even sure my grandmother knew.

  Later that year I’d had the small tattoo of his name and our wedding date on my left shoulder blade made into a swallow taking flight. Briefly I wondered what he’d done with the large tattoo of my name he’d had inked on his chest.

  It doesn’t matter now.

  “And then he left,” I said. Deep breath. “But I forgive him now.” The lie rolled off my tongue with surprising ease, especially for me. I’d never forgive him, of course. Did it show on my face?

  Nick cocked his head, and I could tell he didn’t believe me. “Why?”

  “Wh-what do you mean, why?” I blustered. “You asked my forgiveness and I’m giving it.”

  “I asked for it then. You didn’t want to give it, and now you do. There must be a reason you’re here after all this time.” The mischief was back in his cocky Elvis half-grin, and I felt like punching him. But instead I saw the opening and took it.

  “If you must know, there is.”

  “I must know.”

  “Me too,” said Lou, raising his hand for the bartender to bring him another beer.

  “Fine.” I glared at both of them before focusing my full attention on Nick. “I need a favor.”

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