The restaurant where I’m meeting David isn’t what I pictured. Why had I imaged something quaint and romantic? A brick building with a rose trellis, wooden floors, and plush plum colored seating. That’s how reunions are supposed to go down, isn’t it? The way they did in the movies. But, this isn’t really a reunion. I’m trying to romanticize it to help myself along, a crutch of sorts. It’s a warmer day than I expected too, and I can feel a line of sweat roll down my back as I walk toward the front doors. When I step inside, the first thing I notice is the minimalistic design. I shiver. The stark whites, modern light fixtures, and boxy tables and chairs. There is nothing warm here, and it occurs to me that David chose this place specifically as my interrogation room. An elegant, middle-aged woman greets me, a menu in her hand. Her long gazelle-like body is draped in a black kimono.

“Welcome,” she says.

“Hello. I’m meeting—“

“David,” she finishes for me.

“Yes. How did you—?”

“This way,” she says.

She turns before I can reply and I understand that I’m expected to follow. My stomach is knotted as we walk through the mostly empty dining room. I can’t see past her shoulders, though I suspect David is there, watching her as she approaches. Is he equally as nervous? Angry? At any moment I’m going to see him and I’ll be able to read it on his face. I could always read everything on his face. My heart is beating so wildly it hurts.

When she steps aside to show me the table, David isn’t there. I stare at the empty seats and feel sharp disappointment.

“He called ahead,” the hostess says. “He will be here shortly.”

She leaves me there with my oversized menu, and I feel childlike in my aloneness. I cross my legs, uncross them. Straighten my hair, wonder if there’s lipstick on my teeth or if my mascara is clumped over my eyelashes—stupid, shallow thoughts. I chose to wear something casual: a pair of dark jeans and a slouchy T-shirt under my leather jacket. What’s the point of not being yourself and giving people the wrong impression? I come as I am. I sip at my water until I spill some of it on myself, then I’m dabbing my white shirt frantically with my napkin, cursing my clumsiness.

When he steps inside the restaurant, the atmosphere changes. I can feel him before I see him. I set my napkin down and sit up, alert. And then he’s there, moving like water toward me. Everything goes quiet in my head. I have the urge to weep, and then I’m standing to embrace him. I have to reach up on my tiptoes to get my arms around his neck. We don’t let go right away. Anger, resentment, the dire need for answers—is put on hold for…one…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight—seconds. I can feel his warmth and smell the fabric of his shirt—and through that, the spice of his skin. His body is curled around me, his hands heavy on my back as he holds me to himself. I am so lonely in that moment—so aware of the fact that I have never healed or moved on. When he steps back and we’re no longer touching I feel inordinately sad.

“Hello,” David says softy.

I study his eyes to know what he’s feeling, but he’s guarded. Who has walls now?

“Hi.”

He motions for me to sit down. I do, never taking my eyes off him. He’s different. I suppose that happens after people are apart for a length of time. They become more themselves while you cling to who they used to be.

His hair is shorter, shaggy—more styled; the smile lines around his eyes are more pronounced. He’s wearing a lot of money: starched light blue shirt with a popped collar, slim jeans that emphasize the length of his legs, and a camel colored jacket. He also hasn’t looked at me once since he sat down, which you could see as quite odd, or quite telling.

“I’m going to need to order wine for this. A bottle. So you choose either red or white.”

“Red,” I say, softly.

My fingers find the straw wrapper from my water and I hold it between my fist for support.

“Okay.”

He sets about studying the wine menu while I sit solemnly, my hands clasped in my lap. When our server comes to collect our order, David rattles it off without consulting me. Another way he’s changed, I think. I wouldn’t say less considerate than I would say more self-assured. When we’re alone again he finally looks at me. There are many notable things about David: his good looks, for instance, his deep voice, the John Wayne gait—but the most pronounced thing about him is the expression he’s unable to hide from his eyes. It hurts him to look at me, and suddenly I feel such shame. Shame at who I am, who I was with him. I feel dirty underneath his very clear, very honest eyes.

“How have you been?” he says. He doesn’t really want to know. He just needs warm-up questions.

“I’ve been well,” I say, cautiously. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself. It’s wonderful.”

His lips pull into a straight line and he nods, an attempt at a smile.

“Why? Why did you go, Yara?”

“I didn’t imagine it going like this,” I say. My straw wrapper is mangled so I twist and untwist the napkin in my lap. My hands can never be still when I’m upset.

“How’d you think this was going to go down?” he asks.

One of his elbows is resting on the table. His posture is casual, flippant, like he doesn’t care to be here, but must. He’s running a thumb across his lips as he stares at me.

“You meet me here, we have a few drinks, we chat about where our lives are now, and then we hug as we part ways and say ‘let’s do this again sometime’?”

“I—I don’t know, David. I came because you asked me to and I thought I owed you that.”

“How long has it been since you left?”

Since you left. Not—since we last saw each other. He’s not wrong to say it that way, but the phrasing still hurts.

“Years…three years…”

“Three years, two months, five days,” he says.

I don’t respond. How can I? I feel like he’s trying to prove that he cares more.

“Beat me up,” I say. “Say anything you like if it makes you feel better.” I lean back against my seat. “I deserve it.”

“That’s not why I asked you here,” he says.

“Why did you?”

“I’m in love.”

I feel as if I’m in a snow globe and someone’s shaken me around. Of course he’s been loving other girls, fucking other girls—but to hear it.

“I want to marry her, but I can’t because I’m still married to you.”

Our wine arrives. Perfect and terrible timing. We’re locked in a cold stare while it’s opened and poured. David accepts his small taste and nods to the server, never taking his eyes off me. She, in turn, pours me a glass and discreetly disappears. He drains his glass and pours himself another. I wish for something stronger as I lick my lips.

“Who is she?”

He’s shaking his head already. “You don’t get to know that. You left.”

I feel a rise of anger that I’m probably not entitled to. But I came, I met him, and now I also want answers.

“I do get to know that, because you want me to sign papers. That’s why you’re here.”

He considers me for a moment and then says, “Tell me why you left, Yara.” Before I can answer or even process his words, he rephrases them. “Tell me why you left me.”

It’s more painful when he says it that way. It’s also the truth. I didn’t just leave Seattle, or the States, I left him—a person, the human I claimed to love.

I imagine the look on my face is awful because David almost looks sorry he asked.

I haven’t taken a deep breath since I saw him, so I do that first, then I say, “I always said I’d leave, remember? I knew you’d be better if I was gone.”

“Better at what?”

I shake my head. My hands are trembling. “Better. Just better.”

“A better man, a better human, or what was it…a better artist?”

That’s when I know it was her, that ashen haired bitch with her love-drunk eyes. She’s the only one I’d ever said that to other than David.

“Petra,” I say.

David doesn’t confirm or deny. He looks on, his face expressionless. He’s rehearsed this, I realize. You don’t just march into a conversation like this one without considering every possible outcome.

“Was it going on before I left?” I ask.

He looks momentarily taken aback. “Of course not. She’s—we’ve been together for almost a year now. She came to a show…”

He’s already told me more than he was planning to.

“All right,” I say. “So you’re here for a divorce.”

“Don’t, Yara,” he says. “Don’t say it like that. Where you’re suddenly the victim. I’m just giving you what you’ve wanted since the beginning.”

“What you want,” I correct him.

He leans back in his chair. The stem of his wineglass is perched between two of his fingers. I’m afraid he’s going to drop it and get it all over his shirt.

“We both know that’s not true.” His voice is low, angry.

“Why didn’t you find me then? Before now.”

He says nothing. We’re staring again. Our server reappears. She wants to know if we’ve looked at the menu. I can’t look at her for fear I’ll burst into tears.

“We’ll both have the rib eye,” he says. “Medium rare.”

It’s what I would have chosen for myself. He knows that, but it was still unnecessary to order for me. He’s showing me that he still knows all those small things about me, like how I like my steak cooked. What he’s doing works, because I feel another pang of deep loneliness.

Finally he says, “So, you were never in love with me. You just wanted to play God with my emotions.”

I can see the muscles in his jaw working. He can’t play this game with me. We both struck our deal that night in Seattle. Words were exchanged. He’s acting like he had no part of it.

“That’s how it started. You know that, David. It was a game, but then all of a sudden I was very much in love with you. Very much. It got to be too much. I didn’t know what to do with it.”

He nods slowly. “Why didn’t you talk to me about how you felt? You could have told me and I would have understood.”

“Would you have?” It’s the first time I have to actually think about that. David was so sure about everything back then he rarely checked to make sure I was sure too.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it? A platinum album. I guess I should thank you for that.”

“Don’t,” I say. “You were always worth a platinum album—”

“—Not quite. Not according to you who needed to break my heart for the sake of art. Not worth anything unless I was as jaded as you.”

My eyes well with the tears I swore to myself I’d not cry.

“You’re right,” I tell him. “I left because I’m a jaded coward and I tried to pretend I was doing you a favor.”

He’s quiet as he considers what I’ve said, then he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, tossing a hundred pound note on the table and standing up.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says.

After he’s gone I stay to drink the rest of the wine, but leave the food untouched.