There was a time, not all that long ago, when Friday night was an opportunity to go out and get a couple of drinks, or go dancing, or both, or whatever. Those days—nights—are over. This Friday finds me collapsed on the chaise, still in my work clothes even though I’ve been home for an hour. It’s all I can do to work the remote control. Frankly, I shouldn’t have bothered; there’s nothing good on.

When the phone rings and I pick it up to find that it’s Mitch, even that voice doesn’t zing me out of my stupor.

Well, maybe a little.

“Hey,” he says. “Want to get a beer? Jacks?”

I really, really want to say yes. That’s the unvarnished truth. But the thought of putting on decent clothes, going all the way down to 5^th Street, and attempting to make even semi-decent conversation is too daunting.

“Oh, I’d love that, but I’ve got to take a pass.”

“Are you sure? I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Tempting, but no. Work’s been a living hell.”

“You doing okay?”

“I’m good. Just tired and antisocial, you know? Is that all right?” Kari would understand, but Mitch and I haven’t known each other long. Maybe I just don’t feel like it isn’t acceptable yet.

“Absolutely. Get some rest—and don’t forget the movie tomorrow.”

I barely stop myself from groaning. After our office-floor picnic, Mitch suggested we get together Saturday to see the movie we skipped after our date—after our not-date, rather. It seemed like a really good idea when I agreed to it, but at the moment I think I’d rather sit on this couch till it’s time to go to work on Monday.

On the other hand, I know I’ll have a good time. Surely I can recoup enough energy in the next twenty-four hours.

And honestly? I want to see him. Our picnic was awesome, and we talked on the phone again last night for more than two hours. This time we didn’t talk about just me; he told me more about his parents (loving, supportive, and slightly befuddled by the acting thing), his first real acting job (a commercial for a big-deal local gym in LA, in exchange for a membership), and his most recent girlfriend (cheated on him).

Oh, that blows, I said, and he said She wasn’t the first, which led into a long side conversation about infidelity and how both of us think it’s an absolutely garbage thing to do. The kind of conversation you have with a boyfriend, really, except … you know. Just friends.

I can’t believe how differently I feel about him; the fact that I can’t remember the last time I just sat quietly and let someone talk about themselves doesn’t reflect well on me, but it’s the truth.

So yeah. I want to stay home forever, or at least for the weekend, but I’ll go to the movies with my friend.

Just friends, I remind myself again. To Mitch, I say: “I won’t forget.”

“Awesome,” he says, and hangs up. Damn soap opera people.

But the phone rings again immediately, and this time it’s Kari.

“I was gonna go hang out at Jacks. You want to come?”

Well, isn’t Jacks just the hottest spot these days!

“I’d love that,” I say, again, “but it’s been a lousy week at work and I’m beat. I think I’m just going to turn in early.”

“Does this have anything to do with Mitch?” she asks.

“What?”

“You said you were going to call him on Monday and then nothing happened. Are you avoiding Jacks because he might be there?”

“No, not at all. I—”

“He’s really very sweet.”

Yeah, I know this. It’s ridiculous, her talking him up when I already like him perfectly well. But I still haven’t told her about our phone chats, or the picnic. I kind of wanted them to be just mine for a little while.

And I’m not looking forward to the lecture about how I didn’t do a good enough job getting spoilers for her and her stupid online friends.

I’ve got plenty of spoilers, actually—big, juicy ones.

On Wednesday, Mitch told me that he’d start having scenes with his onscreen mom in the next few days, but that she wasn’t even going to know he was her son for a while, and that the stepfather would find out first and offer him great scads of money to get out of town, which would eventually lead to a rift between the mother and the stepfather. But that part won’t happen for a couple of months; first he has to get in his stepsister’s pants so she can be angry and disgusted when she finds out who he is.

Last night he told me that the network signed him to a two-year contract, and that they’re doing a location shoot next spring—somewhere tropical, though he doesn’t know where yet. Word on the set was he and his stepsister would have to travel to the rainforest to recover an ancient family heirloom. Something about stopping a curse, of all things. And while they’re doing that, he finds out she’s knocked up, and she finds out Lucille is his mother.

It’s all very … soapy. Kari would love it, but of course I can’t tell her. I do at least have to tell her about the picnic, though.

Might as well get it over with, I think. “Look, Kari—” My call waiting beeps. “Hang on, that’s my other line.”

I click over, taking a deep breath. Seems like everyone who might want to invite me to Jacks has already called; I wonder who this can be.

“Hello?”

“Jenna? It’s Drew.”

I nearly drop the phone.

“Drew, I’ve got Kari on the other line.” Drew? Calling me? Why? “Hang on a sec.”

I click back to Kari. Drew has always hated call waiting; if this had happened when we were together, he would have hung up on me. Well, that’s not true, because I would have just let Kari wait until I was done talking to Drew or until she hung up, whichever came first.

But he’s not my boyfriend anymore; he can wait ten seconds.

“Kari, it’s Drew.”

“What the hell does he want?”

“Well, I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to ask him. I’ll call you later, or tomorrow or whatever?”

“Sure thing,” she says, and hangs up.

I click back to Drew. “Sorry about that,” I say. Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t hang up.

“It’s fine. I didn’t mind waiting.”

Since when?

“Are you busy right now?” he asks.

Where on earth is this going? “No, I’m just hanging out at home. Long week.”

“Would you like to meet me for a drink?”

Okay, did not see that coming. What can he possibly want? He obviously wants something, and I have to admit that I’m really curious about what it is. I don’t want to go out, but … there’s something odd about his voice? And a weird kind of deference in the way he’s asking me to meet him.

If I don’t go, I’ll just sit here all night wondering.

“I … I guess I could?”

Seriously, what can he possibly want?

“Why don’t you come down here?”

Drew still lives on 3^rd Street; it’s a matter of pride for him that even though he’s doing well enough to live pretty much anywhere, he stayed in the neighborhood where he has roots. Frankly, I think his huge rent-controlled apartment might have been a contributing factor as well, but he’d never admit it.

The thought of the train ride is daunting—why did I move uptown again? “Listen, as I think about it, I’m really tired and it’s an awfully long way to go for a drink. You want to meet halfway?”

“Okay,” he says, surprising me. He’s never been big on compromise, and, except to go to work, he never goes above 14^th Street. “Marty’s?”

Marty’s is the place Drew and I had our first date, actually, so that’s a little weird. It’s around the corner from the vet’s office where we met. Two days after my friend had her dog put down, he got her number out of her file and called her for my number—which she gave him without a second thought. Not that I minded. When he finally tracked me down he asked me to meet him at Marty’s for a drink when he got out of work. And the rest is, as they say, history.

Ancient history. So why is he calling me now?

“Marty’s it is,” I say. “Give me an hour.”

* * *

Marty’s hasn’t changed at all. The jukebox is still turned up too high, and the crowd around the dartboard is nearly loud enough to drown it out anyway. Drew isn’t there when I arrive, so I grab a seat at the bar and order a Cosmo.

I had a bit of a time figuring what to wear. What do you wear to meet with your ex-boyfriend who’s engaged to someone else? I ended up going with jeans and a pink cable-knit sweater that makes me look a bit like a kindergarten teacher. I don’t want to look like I was trying too hard.

Actually, I don’t want to look like I was trying at all—because this is weird.

“Jenna,” Drew says from behind me.

I jump a little, then turn around on my barstool. “Hey.”

Drew orders a martini, and the bartender mixes one up. Drink in hand, Drew settles my tab as well as his and says, “Let’s go sit at a table.”

I pick up my drink and follow him. He chooses a table in the corner farthest from the door, where it’s shadowy and just slightly quieter than the rest of the place.

“So,” I say, taking a seat, “I was surprised to hear from you. What’s going on?”

He looks a little embarrassed. “I should have kept in better touch with you—”

“Drew, I walked out on you. I didn’t expect us to wind up best friends.”

“Still, I should have called or something. I’ve missed talking to you.” He takes a long swallow of his drink. “You always understood about work and stuff like that.”

That’s me: understanding as hell. Not good enough to marry, but no one can have it all, right?

“Is something wrong at work?” I ask. I don’t ask And if so, why aren’t you talking to Trudi about it?, but I think it.

“Well, yeah.” He drains the martini and gestures for another. “I think my partners want me out.”

“Out? Out of the practice?” This is a shock. Drew is an excellent veterinarian. Not such a great people person, but fantastic at his job.

“They haven’t really said anything outright,” he says.

The bartender drops off Drew’s drink, and he drinks about half of it at one go. I’ve never seen him drink like this. Of course, he’s never had trouble at work before, either.

“They just keep dropping hints—how much would I want for them to buy me out, have I ever thought about a solo practice? They’re not exactly subtle.”

“But I can’t imagine why,” I say. “Drew, you’re a great vet.”

“Thank you,” he says. “It means a lot that you would say that.”

“It’s true.” I’m actually indignant on his behalf, which is also weird since I was thinking ill of him just the other day.

“Unfortunately, it was their practice for a long time before I came on board—if they want me to go, I probably should. But where would I go?”

“Oh, Drew,” I say. “I’m so sorry this is happening.”

“Thanks.” He smiles weakly and finishes his drink.

I’m surprised when he signals for yet another. “You’re welcome,” I say.

He reaches across the table and lays his hand over mine. I tug a little but he doesn’t let go, and I don’t say anything. It’s not a big deal, really.

“What do you think about going somewhere quieter?” he asks, and it occurs to me that he must be very, very drunk.

“What I think is that you’ve had enough to drink,” I say. “Come on, let’s walk it off.” Greeley Square—which is really more of a triangle, so figure that out—is only a block or so away; we can circle that a few times and see if he sobers up. Then I can stuff him in a cab and wash my hands of this weirdness.

“Whatever you want,” he says, but his agreeability is sort of undermined by the fact that he picks up his fresh martini and drinks the whole thing. He drops some bills on the table with a flourish, takes my hand and leads me outside.

It’s gotten a little chilly out, and I’m grateful my sweater is warm—it’s this really amazing soft wool, and wasn’t expensive at all. I wish it wasn’t pink, but you get what you get when you shop almost exclusively clearance—and if I’m going to walk a drunk around the park, I don’t need to freeze to death while I do it.

“Where to?” he asks. “Your place?” And he slings his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close and giving me a look that I recognize perfectly well. It may have been over a year since I’ve seen it, but even with my lousy memory I could hardly forget it.

Whoa. Just a minute. This is heading someplace I don’t want to go. There is one thing I absolutely never do, and that is cheat on anyone or get involved with anyone who is. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing exciting about infidelity.

“Drew,” I say, “I’m glad you felt you could talk to me about your work trouble, and I make a great sympathetic ear—but that’s as far as it goes. You’ll have to get whatever other kind of comfort you’re looking for from your wife-to-be.”

“I can’t,” he says. “We broke up.”

“You what?” I say.

“We broke up,” he says again.

I go sort of numb from shock. It’s literally the last thing I expect, and I don’t quite know how to process it.

This is what I’ve been wishing for, right? For a whole year.

So this time, when he pulls me close, I wrap my arms around his waist, and when he bends to kiss me, I let him.

“I’ll get a cab,” he says.

I hesitate. I … kind of don’t want him to come to my place? He knows where it is—he had to forward my mail—but he’s never been inside.

Plus, you know what? I want to see his place. If he’s lying about the breakup, I’ll be able to tell.

“Let’s go to your place,” I say.

So that’s what we do. Drew flags down a cab and we sit quietly during the short trip downtown. The cab drops us off and I stand looking at the building for a moment. I can’t believe I used to live here. It seems a lifetime ago.

It still feels strange, though, to see Drew unlocking the front door and then the inner door. I used to have those keys, after all. I left them on the dining room table when I moved out. I carried the last of my things out in a cheap duffel bag I bought at the surplus store, stepped out of this very elevator that we’re getting into now, walked out, and never looked back.

At the time, I thought I might be making the biggest mistake of my life. In retrospect, I’m proud of myself. I didn’t settle. I knew that if I couldn’t have what I wanted, it was better to be alone than to accept less.

And look. It paid off, right?

So why don’t I feel triumphant?

The apartment looks much the same as it did when I lived there. All the furniture is in the same place, no major redecorating to remind me that someone else lived here after me. Drew never really liked to have his stuff moved around; I see Gertrude didn’t change that about him.

There’s nothing to indicate that anyone but him lives here. I guess she really did move out.

He closes the door quietly behind me and I turn to see him staring at me, not saying anything. “Don’t talk,” he says. “I just want to look at you. It’s been such a long time.”

It has been a long time, hasn’t it? I stand there, helplessly, looking around me, buffeted by memory after memory. The day I moved in, when we had sex on the balcony after dark. The first time we had his parents over for dinner here—no wonder they didn’t like me, after what I did to that pork tenderloin. The day I got my promotion—things were already starting to go bad between us then, with little resentments piling up and never being discussed. But when I came home, Drew made dinner, and we danced to Etta James in the middle of the living room.

It was also the beginning of the end, as I recall. I was so sure after that night that a marriage proposal was right around the corner, that I’d found Mr. Right and we were finally headed in the direction I wanted.

And I waited, and waited—and waited—until I thought I would scream from frustration. Until finally I asked point blank if we were ever going to get married.

I don’t want to think about this anymore, don’t want to remember any of the hurtful things that were said—and, to be fair, I should admit that hurtful things were said on both sides.

Those things don’t matter now. I’m home.

But it’s funny—it doesn’t feel like home.

Drew steps away from the door and takes me in his arms. He smells like Old Spice. It seems like I used to love that smell, like that smell used to represent everything I wanted in the world, but it’s all so far away and academic now. I feel myself disassociating from the whole thing, distancing myself from all these complicated and unwelcome feelings.

“You are so beautiful,” he says, and I’m in his arms, and his eyes are looking into mine like he’s drowning and I’m a life preserver. Or maybe I’m the one who’s drowning. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” I say, and I suppose it’s true. I remember that it was true, but everything is so out of synch now. I keep feeling like something is terribly wrong, and I can’t put my finger on it.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I know that I shouldn’t be doing this, but I don’t know why I feel that way. And that weird confusion stays with me even as Drew begins to kiss me again and walk me backwards to the bedroom, and through everything that comes after.