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When Michael asked if I wanted a real drink, I ordered a glass of wine, and he got one of the beers on tap. The bartender was staring at my wedding ring and noticing that Michael wasn’t wearing one. At least that’s what I assumed when he was putting our drinks down. Michael reached for my glass of wine to hand it to me at the same time that I reached for it. Our hands touched. He let his fingers linger over mine before letting go.

A man in a cowboy hat walked toward the juke box. No one wore cowboy hats in Connecticut, although Murphy’s Pub seemed like the appropriate place to wear one if you were going to. Suddenly, the sound of Mariah Carey’s song “Love Takes Time” filled the room.Love takes time to heal when you’re hurting so much…”

“I played this song incessantly when I was fifteen and my boyfriend broke up with me,” I said.

“That’s depressing … and so unhip.” He grinned.

“I was hip. I was also a Pearl Jam fan.” I was a Barry Manilow fan, but I wasn’t going to admit that.

“My ex-wife was into alternative rock also.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why did you two break up?”

“I cheated on her. Sometimes I don’t think before getting into situations that I shouldn’t.” He paused and looked me dead in the eyes. “Have you ever cheated on anyone?”

“No.”

“How does your husband feel about us hanging out?”

“He’s fine with it. I have a lot of male friends.” I hadn’t had a male friend since I stopped working.

“He must be really secure, having such a hot wife.”

I felt my ears get hot and knew they were turning red. “He is.” It bothered me that I lied to Michael about Jim, when I should’ve been bothered that I was lying to Jim about Michael. A woman wearing an extremely low-cut shirt with miles of cleavage asked if the seat next to Michael was taken. Michael didn’t even give her the once-over, which gave me a secret thrill.

“So, what did your mother think of Brooklawn?” I asked.

“First she said she hated it. The next morning, she said it was fine. That afternoon, she said if I was going to force her to live there, she might as well get used to it.”

The bartender asked if we wanted another drink. I was feeling slightly buzzed, so I knew it wasn’t a good idea. “I’ll have another glass of wine,” I said. As the bartender brought over the wine bottle, my good sense prevailed, and I put my hand over my glass before he could pour it. “I changed my mind. I have to drive home.” The bartender nodded and walked away.

“I’d offer to drive you home, but I rode my bike here. My car’s in the shop.”

Over the next hour, we shared even more about our lives. I told him about my relationship with Jerry and how he resented me. He told me how his insecurities with his father affected his first marriage. I even told him about what happened with Lorna and my old job. He was empathetic and validated my feelings. I knew sharing my problems with him was going to bring us closer, but at that moment I didn’t care.

In the past Jim had been my touchstone. He’d always been there for me, no matter how big or small the issue. When we’d been dating for three months, I got my jacket zipper stuck on my shirt. He spent almost a half hour trying to help me out of my coat. It was not only sweet but showed how patient he was. Granted, it was the first night we were planning on having sex, so no zipper was going to stop him, but the care he took not to rip my shirt made me like him even more. Lately, Jim wouldn’t have noticed if I got my head stuck in a zipper.

I looked up at the TV, and CNN had announced the time. It had been two hours since I got here. “Oh no, I’m not going to be able to pick up the ice cream that Gia asked me to get,” I said.

“She’ll understand.”

“You don’t have a teenager.”

He paid our bar tab and walked me to my car. “This has been fun,” he said. “We should do it again soon.” He opened the door for me, then leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. It felt so good and so wrong all at the same time.

“I hope you have a good afternoon,” I squeaked out. On the drive home, I touched my cheek. I could feel his lips on me as if they were still there. I was playing with fire, but not knowing what would happen next was an adrenaline rush.

Two minutes after I walked in, Gia got home. Her keys jangled against the front door so loudly it was as if she was fighting with them to get in. She finally conquered the lock and entered, wearing earbuds. She put her backpack on the counter and breezed past me. Why couldn’t she ever take that backpack with her? Before going up the stairs, she pulled out one of her earbuds.

“Did you get my strawberry ice cream?” she asked

“Hi, Mom,” I said sarcastically.

“Hi.”

“I didn’t get to the market today.”

“Seriously?” She pouted. “All I wanted was a little ice cream, and you’re telling me we still don’t have any?”