I freeze.

Breathe, Mia.

It could be a neighbor. Or the postman. Or the landlady who realized she had something urgent to tell me, just after her phone battery died.

The school administration has this address, too.

Except no administration goes knocking on people’s doors at seven in the evening. It doesn’t go knocking at any time of the day, for that matter. It summons you instead, preferably at eight a.m., just for the pleasure of making you wait outside a locked door.

“Who is it?” I ask.

If only this stupid door had a peephole and this stupid building, an intercom!

“It’s Raphael,” a familiar voice comes from the other side.

My knees wobble.

Several physiological processes kick off in my body, making me lightheaded, queasy, burning hot, chilled to the bone, scared, and thrilled beyond words—all at the same time.

“Mia?” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first. Will you let me in?”

I bite my nails. “You should’ve called.”

“Oh, I would’ve, but you changed your number,” he says. “And you didn’t give me the new one, remember?”

The familiar note of humor in his tone makes me smile. For some strange reason, it makes me want to cry, too.

“Listen,” Raphael says. “I have no bones to pick with you. I’m sure you had your reasons for preferring the beaches of a tropical island to the drizzle of Paris. I’d live on an island, too, if I didn’t have a company to run.”

I smile, remembering the rocky island pictures on the walls in his loft.

Then I realize he knows I wasn’t in Quebec.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“Just for a chat… as a friend. For old times’ sake.”

This is the perfect opportunity to say, Sorry, Raphael, but I’ve really moved on, and wish him all the best.

“How did you find me?” I ask instead, opening the door.

Momentary madness is the only explanation for it.

Over the past fourteen months, I’d gotten so used to putting the words “far away” and “long ago” next to “Raphael” that I tricked myself into believing he lived in a parallel universe. Raphael d’Arcy became a hunky humanlike life-form I’d met in a time-space loophole. But then the loophole got fixed, and I returned to reality with Lily as proof that the whole thing hadn’t been just a dream.

And now here he is—the hunky life-form.

My ex-boss and ex-lover.

My baby’s dad.

The man I ran from.

The man I would die for.

I take in his tall, lean, hard-bodied frame. He looks exactly like he did a year ago and yet a little different. I’m not sure what that difference is. Is he taller? That’s an impossibility. Brawnier? I don’t think so. Scruffier? Nah. Must be just in my head.

“Wow,” he says, stepping in. “You’ve changed.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Your hair is shorter,” he says. “Way shorter.”

He reaches over and rakes his fingers through my pixie cut.

“It’s convenient to wear it short,” I say, drawing back.

He pulls his hand away and surveys me some more.

“Anything else?” I ask with as much sarcasm as I can manage.

“Your eyes are greener than I remembered.” He strokes his chin, looking me up and down. “It’s little things… I can’t even put a finger on anything specific right off the bat.”

I shrug. “Keep me posted if you do.”

He nods.

For a few seconds we just stand by the door and stare at each other.

It dawns on me that this moment right now is my second—and probably last—chance to say, “Listen, it was good to see you, but I really need to run, so bye and take good care of yourself.”

Only who am I kidding?

All the willpower and resolve I possess are barely enough to keep myself from throwing my arms around his neck, closing my eyes, and tipping my head up for a kiss.

I spin around and head for the kitchen.

He follows me.

“How did you find me?” I ask.

“Through your school.”

I turn around and give him a quizzical look.

“I’ve been following your progress over the past year,” he says. “Just out of curiosity and because it’s so easy with the Internet. You published three articles, which I read.”

My brows go up.

“Quiz me if you don’t believe me,” he offers.

“Maybe later.” I narrow my eyes. “But the Internet doesn’t know my current address.”

“Your school does, though. I was looking you up last night—you know, just to see if you’d published something new for me to read, and I saw you were moderating a workshop in Paris.”

“Co-moderating.”

“Right.” He nods. “With your supervisor. Anyway, once I knew you were in Paris, finding your home address was a matter of ruse and money.”

“You didn’t try to find me while I was in Ma—Canada,” I say.

“Actually, I did,” he says. “And that’s how I knew you were in Martinique. I almost flew there in February, but then I reminded myself you’d dumped me.”

Dumped him?!

“You weren’t my boyfriend to dump,” I say.

He looks taken aback, but then his expression softens. “You’re right, of course. ‘Dump’ wouldn’t apply to our case. What about this: You notified me via a text message that our exclusive arrangement was terminated with immediate effect due to your delocalization?”

I smile. “Sounds about right.”

Raphael looks around the kitchen. “You were cooking.”

“Uh-huh.”

I am not going to ask if he’d like to stay for dinner. Anyway, a dinner of steamed veggies and mashed potatoes isn’t something Raphael would enjoy.

“Tell me something.” He steps closer. “I’m just curious. One moment you were saying you wanted us to be exclusive, and the next moment you were gone. That doesn’t compute.”

I shrug. “Breakups rarely do from the perspective of the ditched party.”

“Touché.” He smiles. “Mind if I steal that line for my next splitsville?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Can I ask for something to drink?”

“There’s a can of Coke in the fridge,” I say, tossing the diced veggies into the steamer. “Maybe even a beer, hiding in the back.”

He pulls out the Coke and the beer. “Bingo!”

“I don’t have a clean glass,” I say. “But I can offer you a teacup.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll drink from the can. Which one do you prefer?”

“The Coke.”

“Good.” He hands me the can. “At least some things have remained the same.”

I set the can on the table.

He raises his beer. “Cheers.”

“Hang on a sec.”

I move to the half-sized dishwasher and fill it. Given the limited amount of tableware in this kitchen, I have to wash the dishes all the time.

“Done!” I press a button on the front of the machine and keep an ear out for its starting noise.

The dishwasher ignores me.

“Not again, you beerflaschebrunzer!”

“Another one of your select Alsatian epithets?” Raphael asks. “What does it mean?”

“The one who pisses into the beer bottle,” I say, opening the machine and retrieving the dirty dishes.

“That’s very… apt.” He squints at me. “Can I help you do the dishes?”

“You can help me fix this bastard,” I say. “The landlady showed me what to do when this happens.”

“I await your orders, ma’am,” Raphael says.

I point at the dishwasher bottom. “Can you unscrew and remove that plastic filter?”

He squats in front of the dishwasher and unfastens the filter.

I begin to rinse it. “Now look for chunks.”

“Where?”

“In the drain.”

He gives me a quizzical look.

“It’ll be tricky because you’ll be searching blind. But fear not, there are no piranhas in there. Just dip a finger in and wiggle.”

His face crinkles up with amusement.

I smile condescendingly. “You’ve never done this sort of thing before, have you?”

Raphael clears his throat. “Dip a finger in the hole,” he comments, as he plunges his index finger into the pipe. “Wiggle blind.”

Why are his lips twitching?

He tilts his head to the side and gives me a mischievous look as if to say, can’t you see how this is funny?

“What?” I ask.

“I do believe I’ve done this sort of thing before,” he says. “And I believe you were there, too.”

“Oh,” I breathe out.

That.

Just as heat starts creeping up my cheeks, Raphael shouts, “Yes!” and pulls a small chunk out of the drain.

It could be an apple heart, I note before he tosses it into the trash can.

I reload the dishwasher and press Start.

The machine is silent for a second and then it begins to grind.

I let out a sigh of relief. “Ah. Music to my ears.”

“I know what’s different about you,” Raphael says. “Apart from the diminished hair and the enhanced eye greenness.”

I put my hands on my hips. “What?”

“That.” He points at my hands. “Your posture. It’s different. And you’re more muscled.”

That’s from carrying Lily in my arms half the night when she had colic.

“It’s from swimming,” I say.

I’ve done that, too… a couple of times.

“I love your new posture and your muscles,” Raphael says.

Lily chooses that precise moment to wake up and wail.

I rush to her cradle.

“Mommy’s here; everything’s fine,” I say, fumbling for her pacifier.

Raphael tiptoes in and halts behind me.

I turn my head to see his expression. He looks stunned.

“You have a baby?” he asks, frowning as if something doesn’t add up.

“It would appear so.”

“Who…” His voice cracks. “Who’s the father?”

Lily is still crying, so I pick her up. “I wish I could tell you he’s a Klingon from Kronos, but he’s just a man.”

Raphael’s fists are clenched and his breathing is visibly strained as he studies my little girl. He must be computing in his head and dreading the possibility that the baby might be his. Poor man! If I tell him the truth, he’ll feel he’d been used again, tricked into parenthood by an unscrupulous sex partner.

It would mean I am that unscrupulous sex partner just like Adele.

“Relax,” I say. “Lily’s dad is back in Martinique.”

“Lily,” he repeats, staring at my baby.

“I named her after my favorite grandma.”

“So you jilted the father?”

“We broke up by mutual agreement.”

He nods. “How old is she?”

“Four months,” I lie.

“I don’t know much about babies, but I would’ve given her six. At least.”

“Her father is very tall,” I say. “She’s his spitting image.”

He nods again, visibly calmer.

“Can I hold her?” He attempts a smile.

I turn Lily around and sniff. “Maybe some other time. I think she’s done a poo.”

He studies her diaper-clad posterior. “Are you sure it’s poop? Maybe her diaper just slid down and… bunched under her butt.”

I lift her closer to his face. “Smell it.”

“Ugh.” He grimaces and turns away.

“Told ya.”

“It could also be gas,” he says.

“Here’s a rule of thumb with babies.” I set Lily down on the floor to get her change mat. “If it looks like poop and smells like poop, then it’s poop.”

“Ah,” he says. “Mia and her rules of thumb. You haven’t changed that much, after all.”

“Raphael and his rule of the middle finger,” I say. “You haven’t changed at all.”