“There he is. The newly married man.”

It was my first day on set. We were shooting a movie in Paris, and I was the main lead and love interest, alongside an actress named Theresa Birmingham, a gorgeous, stick-thin redhead of about thirty years old. I turned toward the director who had just greeted me.

“Hey there, Hank. Sorry you didn’t get an invite. Was a small affair. Mostly friends and family.”

“Ah, no worries there. Who’s the lucky lady, anyway?” Hank asked. His head was completely bald and it shone in the camera lights. “They keep saying she’s elusive. Won’t give out an interview.”

“She’s pretty new to the celebrity thing,” I said. “Which is why we got out of New York. Nobody would have left her alone there. And in Paris, people could really care less about it.”

“Smart,” Hank said. “Although, I was surprised that you could start the movie so soon. I figured you’d be on some kind of elaborate honeymoon right now.”

“We’re waiting,” I said. This is what I’d told everyone: that we were adjusting to our new life in Paris and hadn’t really felt the need to “get away” yet. Summer in Paris was absolutely remarkable, with restaurant and art gallery openings, long days of summer sun, and gorgeous parks to enjoy. I’d recently purchased a boat and loved to bring Gigi with me snaking around the lakes.

Of course, I didn’t tell them the reality. That Margot hadn’t spoken to me very often in the three weeks since our wedding. She’d hardly looked at me. Those gorgeous nights we’d spent, out on the terrace, swapping stories, hadn’t returned after the wedding. Sometimes, it gave the apartment a strange, tense feel. But often, when I arrived home, Margot just got out of my way, taking Gigi to the park, or leaving her with me as she went out on the town. We were co-parenting, in a sense. But we were speaking even less than Kelsey and I had, during our last days.

I wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about it. On the plus side I’d secured Gigi as my own, but I’d also lost something genuine with Margot. She’d been such a bright spirit in my life. Perhaps I’d stamped it out, with my desire to sleep with her.

But if I didn’t see falling in love with her as an option, as she’d asked…

God, I just didn’t know. I hadn’t thought past the “I dos,” into reality.

“Anyway, Jack, have you met Theresa before?” Hank asked me, beckoning for the slim redhead to approach.

“Of course I’ve met Jack,” Theresa said, grinning broadly to me. I could tell, already, she was flirting. She slipped her hand into mine, shaking it. “But I don’t think I’ve seen you since that party you had a few months ago. That girl who fell and twisted her ankle? That was a friend of mine from college.”

“Oh, wow,” I said. I’d completely forgotten about the injured girl at the party—the catalyst that had made so many things happen. I swallowed and glanced around, wondering when Theresa would drop my hand. “That was a wild party.”

“Sure was. You must have been dating your current wife, around then? But I don’t remember meeting her.”

“Honestly, that party’s such a blur,” I said. “I know she was there, but I think she left early.”

“Ah. And that’s why that other girl stayed over with you,” Theresa laughed, giving me a wink.

Hank cackled, bringing a cigarette to his lips. “Now, now, Theresa. Don’t tease Jack. You know he’s one of the biggest playboys in movie history. Can’t pretend this man doesn’t get exactly what he wants. Right, Jack?”

I shifted, feeling uneasy. “Well, now that I’m married…”

But Hank interrupted me, sending Theresa and I into a far room to read over our lines. We walked along companionably, although I could smell the heat coming from her body. My fingers twitched, sending me back into that old mentality. Shouldn’t I want to sleep with her? I wondered. I certainly hadn’t gotten laid since the day before the wedding. In fact, Margot had been the only person I’d slept with since I’d met her at the bar. Wasn’t that wrong, as our marriage was only a sham?

Theresa and I sat across from one another in a private room without windows. The light was soft, illuminating her face, and illustrating the movie posters on the wall. They were all of Parisian origin, artistic, without the glare and plastic vibrancy of Los Angeles.

“I’ve always wanted to be your co-star,” Theresa said, opening the script. “I’ve heard that you’re an absolute blast to party with. And read lines with. Among other things,” she laughed. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Ha,” I said, eyeing my script. I knew it did, but I felt that that person she was referring to—the “me” of the past—was a million lifetimes away. I’d left him in New York. I’d left him the minute Margot had smiled up at me, asking me what my name was.