Much to my dismay, I do not get run over by a train on the way home. The subway ride is totally uneventful, which gives me plenty of time to watch the instant replay of last night and beat myself up.

What the hell was I thinking?

But that’s the problem: I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know what I think of anything right now. My reactions don’t seem right to me, and it’s hard to analyze what you’re feeling when you’re right in the thick of feeling it.

At home, I take the hottest shower I’ve ever taken.

One thing I do know: something in me has changed. I don’t know what it is, exactly, or why it happened, but a month ago—hell, a week ago—I would have wanted to stay there at Drew’s apartment. I would have tried to talk to him more about what happened, and I would have tried to coax him around to seeing it my way: we belong together, this happening is a sign. Blah blah blah.

But I don’t feel those things. I feel empty, hollowed-out. I feel like there’s something missing—and I don’t mean that feeling after the breakup, where I felt like Drew was missing.

Something else.

The water starts to go lukewarm, so I get out and dry off. Wrapped in a towel, I lie down on my bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to pick my way through the stupid circular thoughts in my head.

Getting back together with Drew was everything I wanted. I know this to be true, so when did that change? What did he say, or do, that struck me wrong? What happened that I’m not able to put my finger on?

Once again I run through every minute that led to this morning, this time looking for some false note with him. Surely he said or did something, because it doesn’t make sense that I should all of a sudden stop wanting him. And while I certainly can’t accuse him of doing anything without my consent, the truth of the matter is that I didn’t want to be there. I couldn’t seem to get out of my own way and realize it at the time, but I sure see it now.

It should have been the joyous resolution of a year of waiting, but frankly it was awful.

I don’t think Drew is the problem here.

I think I am.

* * *

I wake up with that terrible feeling of having napped too hard, and roll over to look at the clock.

Damn it! It’s already four o’clock, and I slept the whole day away. I hate that.

I drag myself back to the bathroom and wash my face with some cool water, then peek in the kitchen cupboards. By some miracle, there’s coffee. No cream, but whatever—this is medicinal. I brew up half a pot, and when it’s done I bring a cup back to the bedroom with me. I stand there for a few minutes, sipping my sad, black coffee and looking at what’s in my closet.

Not much, honestly. Mitch has already seen me in my D&G top, and my hangover jeans, and my casual-but-not-really black dress. Maybe—

I freeze in the act of reaching for the Vera Wang. For one thing: to a movie? No. For another: What am I doing? Why do I care what I’m wearing to go to the movies with Mitch?

Well, I don’t. I mean, I want to look nice—I always want to look nice—but that’s it.

I push the dress aside and grab a white cashmere sweater off the shelf behind it. After the Vera Wang and the D&G top, it’s probably the most beautiful thing I own. And honestly? It’s just a little bit tight, which—

Which I completely don’t care about, because I’m just going to the movies with Mitch.

I think about changing, decide this is fine. The part of my brain that’s whirling around the question of why I’m dressing up right now quiets down when I put on jeans, but starts back up again when I pull out the black boots.

It’s just that Mitch is so tall. It’s nothing to do with making my ass look good.

I take the train down to SoHo and emerge from underground into the bustle of shoppers and tourists. The sun is about ready to touch the horizon, and I would swear there’s a touch of winter in the air. Already? It’s barely fall.

The building that houses the movie theater is only a block away from the subway entrance, and Mitch is waiting for me, leaning against the outside wall near the corner of the building. He’s in jeans, because of course he is, and the snaps are back but I don’t even care. He looks good, and I try to tell myself I don’t notice—but I do. I do notice, and all my stupid circular thoughts from earlier come crashing back in like a tsunami.

Oh, my God, I think. You screwed up so bad. Look at him. Look at him, you idiot.

Some things are starting to clarify themselves in my head—things about how I feel, and for whom, and what happened last night, and what can never happen now.

I push all of those thoughts away. I have to get through this. I put on my best poker face.

But I must not have a very good poker face, because when Mitch looks up and sees me coming his expression gets serious.

“Hey, are you all right?” he asks.

I shrug a little. “Yeah, I’m okay,” I say, but there’s a waver in my voice so it comes out sounding anything but okay. “I napped by accident. I’m not feeling 100 percent.”

“Are you getting sick?” He reaches out and touches the back of his hand to my forehead, and I just about faint. Sexy, yet nurturing. Great. And of course he smells amazing. “Could be coming down with something that’s making you tired.”

“I … I didn’t sleep well,” I say.

And then, without me even realizing it’s about to happen, tears spring to my eyes.

No. Oh, shit.

I blink rapidly, then stand there in horrified silence as I feel them spill over and drip down my face.

Mitch blinks too, clearly surprised. “You seem to have sprung a leak,” he says, softly.

I nod.

“Okay, this movie isn’t happening,” he says. “Let’s go sit down.”

Petrosino Square—which is also shaped like a triangle, actually, what is it with this city?—is on the opposite corner. Mitch takes my hand in his and steps onto the crosswalk.

I look at our joined hands as we cross the street. Such a small thing, but somehow everything—like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to shift immediately into protector mode, to want to know what’s wrong, to try and fix it.

But the only thing I need protection from, apparently, is my own stupidity. And I don’t think Mitch can fix this.

For lack of any better ideas, I let him lead me across the street, and then to a bench in the narrowest part of the park. He sits, and pulls me down next to him.

I take a few deep breaths and try my best to shut off the waterworks. I’m mostly successful, and when I look around no one seems to be paying attention anyway. There are a couple of women with strollers sitting on a bench, and a skateboarder—in absolute defiance of the rules—trying to ollie over a huge hump in the cracked pavement. He’s almost good at it, but not quite. He hits the ground twice in a row, but keeps trying.

By this point the tears have stopped, so that’s good. But nothing else is good right now. I’m embarrassed, and mortified, and a whole host of other synonyms. I’m also feeling a great deal of self-pity, which is stupid because I did this to myself. And I’m screwing up Mitch’s chance to go see this movie.

Worst of all, he’s going to ask me what’s wrong. He’s that sort of guy, right?

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,” he says. “But I hope you will.”

It might be literally the only way he could have gotten me to talk, this asking-without-asking thing. I’d admire it as one hell of a tactic, except this is Mitch. It’s not a tactic. It’s just who he is.

If there is such a thing as absolute good, I think it’s sitting here on this bench with me.

I don’t know what to say, and I have to tell him something. I mean, I could say I don’t want to talk about it, and we could just go to the movies, but he would know something was wrong. I know Mitch; that would eat at him.

I could make something up, maybe? But it wouldn’t feel right to lie. Not to him.

“I slept with Drew.” I just say it, right out loud like that. It sounds even worse out loud than it did in my head, and that’s really saying something.

“I’m sorry?” he says, and he’s looking at me like that was literally the last thing in the world he expected me to say. Which it probably was.

I lace my fingers together in my lap and stare straight ahead of me, not looking at him. At first it’s hard to talk about it, but it actually feels better to have it out, so I keep talking until I’ve told the whole story.

Then I look at Mitch—and I don’t even know what to think. I’ve never in my entire life seen anyone look that angry. He’s staring straight ahead as well; anyone walking by would think that we found the traffic patterns on Lafayette Street absolutely fascinating.

He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t say anything, so that’s pretty awkward. After maybe thirty seconds, which feels like thirty minutes, I finally ask, “Are you mad at me?”

It’s a dumb question. Why would he be mad at me?

“Why would I be mad at you?” he says. He’s got an excellent point—I ought to know, since I just made it myself—but he sure sounds angry.

“I don’t know. I just—”

“I’ve got no right to be angry with you, Jenna.” He turns his head to look at me, and his gaze is so intense that it makes me look down at my hands. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Me, too,” I say. “I guess … I guess I’m just mad at myself, and I’m projecting.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he says. His voice is a really odd kind of cold—restrained? I don’t know the word, but I know that, for the first time, it doesn’t make me feel shivery and delighted. I just feel sad. “So … well. That’s what you’ve been wanting, right?”

“I … I certainly thought so.”

“Okay.”

“But now I’m not sure?”

“Okay.”

“And I don’t know, I feel really confused?” Understatement of the century there.

“That sucks.”

“And I think maybe—”

He stands up, abruptly. “I just remembered I have to be somewhere.”

I stare at him for a moment. That’s completely ludicrous. He can’t have to be somewhere; we were supposed to be watching a movie for the next two hours.

But I don’t point that out. I’m sure he just wants to get away from me, and who could blame him? I’m sure he doesn’t want to sit here while I whine about something that’s really my own fault. I’ve been there. How many times have I listened to Kari complain about some guy and thought Oh my God please make it stop? And I’m sure she thinks the same of me.

Mitch is still standing there, like he’s waiting for me to say something.

So I do. “Let’s talk tomorrow? I’ll call you?”

“Sure,” he says, shortly. “But I’m doing some stuff. I might not be around.”

“Oh, okay,” I say. What does he want? What else can I say?

“Yeah, okay.” He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels a little bit, like he might be planning to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns and strides out the side entrance to the park, cutting back towards the subway.

I’m going to the same subway if I’m going home—which I guess I am, because where else would I go? But it’s obvious he wouldn’t want my company, so I stay put on my bench and spend some quality time wallowing in remorse. Eventually, I drag myself to the subway, and home.