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“I’m not really sure what I am to you. And maybe it’s too soon to ask. It’s not like we’ve known each other that long.”

“I guess I wasn’t really thinking about putting a label on it,” I say. It is a line that men usually give women who want more, a line that criticizes the woman’s need for definition as a cover for commitment issues. I hate myself for using it.

“I’m just looking for some sense of where you’re at, that’s all.” He’s so direct, so honest. It’s disarming. “It’s selfish, really. I want to know how much I need to protect my heart. If you’re not in this with any seriousness, then I need to reel myself in. You know what I’m saying?”

I do know what he is saying, and if I was as direct and honest as him, I would say, You should protect your heart. I’m a mess. My name isn’t even Katrina. Please reel yourself in.

Instead, though, I say, “I totally get it” and then fail to elaborate on what exactly I get or what I plan to do about it.

“I don’t want to put pressure,” he says. “But I think I need to know where you see this going. Not tonight. But soon. Next time I see you?”

My bread/stress ball has become gummy from the sweat in my palm. I keep squeezing it.

“Okay, yeah, I understand,” I say.

I don’t see this going anywhere.

Or rather, I have to divorce my husband before this can go anywhere.

Yes, I have a husband.

And children. Two of them.

My name is Nicole.

Do you still want to know where this is going?

I am getting hot, this conversation throwing off whatever internal systems normally keep me at a reasonable temperature. I take a sip of water, let a cube of ice roll around my mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve made it weird.”

I swallow the ice cube, feel it slide down my throat. I take another sip of water. My body cools.

“No, no, I’m the one who has made it weird,” I say. “It is one of my fortes.”

He laughs. We are back to laughing.

“Can I ask what you want for your future? Like, in general,” I say.

He leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head.

“I don’t know. I think I’d like to get married. Be a dad someday.”

Elijah wants to be a dad.

I am still carrying around the pregnancy test in my purse.

I haven’t gotten my period, and I haven’t peed on the stick.

I’m starting to think I’m not afraid that I am pregnant—I’m afraid that I’m not.

Elijah would be thrilled if I were pregnant.

I know he would. A pregnancy would force the future I’m too afraid to want.

Elijah would be an involved father, the type of father who makes motherhood enjoyable.

The girls would love to have a baby in their lives.

They would be too young to understand the scandal of it all.

Kyle would be appalled, as he should be.

Our separation would be inevitable, as it should be.

“I don’t want to get married and be a dad tomorrow ,” Elijah clarifies. “Please tell me I haven’t ruined the night.”

“No, not at all,” I say. “I’m the one who asked.”

He leans across the table, puts his hands on top of mine.

“Let’s not get into all this tonight, okay? Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

“Deal,” I say. Then, to release the pressure valve, I raise my eyebrows suggestively and say, “I’m particularly looking forward to something sweet back at your place.”

“It puts me at ease to know you are a huge dork,” he says.

“The hugest.”

We have sex that night—not the soft, sensual sex of last time, but something more desperate and primal.

It’s what my body needs, a forceful expulsion of energy.

In the morning, we have sex again, this time slower, tender.

Kyle’s never understood the necessity for different types of sex, the importance of context.

He has always wanted the same kind of sex from me, whether I’m wearing a lace nightie or a sweatshirt covered in baby puke.

He seems perpetually confused that my needs change, that I have needs at all.

Elijah walks me to my car, and we linger there, as we usually do.

I feel compelled to say “I think I love you.” The words are right there, swirling around my mouth like the ice cube.

Either they will melt away or I will spit them out impulsively.

I know, though, that I cannot say these words without repercussions. We are not teenagers.

“Have I scared you off? Will I see you next week?” he asks, his hands on my waist, his cheek pressed against mine, his breath hot on my ear.

I avoid the first question and say, “I think you’ll see me.”

“You like to leave me guessing.”

He takes a bite of my lobe.

“You seem to like the guesswork.”

“I have no choice but to withstand it,” he says.

He moves his mouth to mine, kisses me, his lips enveloping me. I imagine my whole self being sucked through his lips, into his body, away from reality and all its troubles.

“I really care for you,” I say, downgrading the sentiment of what I want to say.

“I really care for you too.”

He kisses me again.

“Are you sure you’re real?” I ask him.

“Are you sure You’re real?”

“I’m not sure, actually,” I say.

He kisses me yet again.

“I should head back to see my dad.”

“Of course you should.”

“It’s always so hard to say goodbye.”

“Brutal.”

I give him one final kiss, then get in the car.

As I pull away, I start formulating a speech to Kyle, an asking-for-a-divorce speech.

Things haven’t been good with us for a while.

What if we’re both happier apart?

I want a trial separation, just to see.

Usually, I can predict Kyle’s reactions. I know him far better than he knows himself. With this, though, I’m not sure. His ego will not be happy with the rejection. He may lash out. But deep down, I think he will be relieved, whether he admits it or not. Or maybe I’m just telling myself that.

I don’t have to mention a thing about Elijah. I just have to keep it about me.

Maybe it’s grief.

Maybe we’ll separate and I’ll change my mind.

But I have to find out.

Please let me find out.