When the final book is signed, the final hand shaken, and final platitudes exchanged, I walk wearily to the first row and sink into a padded seat. I stare at the shadowed stage and for the hundredth time, regret my odd quirk of always wanting to be the last to leave a signing.

Besides Kim, who’s gathering our belongings, the videographer is the only one left in the now-cavernous space. As I watch, he finishes packing the tools of his trade, gives me a nod and wave, and departs.

Kim sinks down beside me, our purses at her feet. “Holy shit that was draining. I need a drink.”

I smirk tiredly. “Preaching to the choir.”

She fixes bloodshot blue eyes on my face. “How do you do it, Iris? How do you stand up there and talk about that night over and over again?”

This isn’t the first time she’s asked me, but tonight’s Q&A was especially difficult. An unintended side-effect of James’ challenge was that every question was more probing and personal than the last.

I shrug, closing my tired eyes. “Honestly, speaking about it has been more cathartic than the writing was. Not that it ever becomes rote, but the repetition helps me see it for what it is—something that happened, not something that defines me.”

She’s silent for a few moments, mulling over my words. “Yeah, well, you’re way more spiritually advanced than me. I almost killed that bitch who accused you of reinforcing rape culture because you never pressed charges.”

I wince, remembering what happened right after the woman asked the—yes, blatantly accusatory—question.

Kim continues, “Although it was pretty awesome watching James Beckett go to town on her.”

And he had, yanking the microphone away from my stunned face and scathingly educating the woman on evidence versus hearsay, statute of limitations, the emotional cost of a public trial, and the statistics of a favorable verdict.

“You know,” Kim muses through a yawn, “you guys looked super hot up there together. And he’s not your professor anymore…”

I snort. “Been there done that.”

Kim bolts upright and grabs my arm, enlivened by the possibility of gossip. I crack open an eye and chuckle at her rapt, open-mouthed expression.

“Oh my God, you’ve boned James Beckett? The James Beckett? Why did I not know this?”

I laugh again to cover the squeeze of pain in my chest. “It’s water under the bridge.”

“Is it, little muse?”

Kim gasps, I choke on breath, and we swivel in our chairs to see James sitting several rows behind us. In the dim lighting, his hair in disarray and his feet propped on the row before him, he looks even more rakish than usual.

More accustomed to his blinding sex appeal than Kim, I recover first. “You were eavesdropping, really? How old are you?”

He grins and I swear I can feel Kim swoon. A second later she’s on her feet and grabbing her purse.

“I have to, um, go,” she stammers, ruining the lie with a giggle.

Resigned, I watch her hasten from the hall. The heavy door squeals as it opens and clanks as it closes behind her.

James doesn’t bother with the stairs at the end of the row, easily traversing the space between us by virtue of balance and long legs.

When he plops into Kim’s recent seat, I drop my head back and once again close my eyes, this time to savor his presence. To allow myself to imagine a different past and a new future for us. But my fantasy is short-lived, collapsing under the weight of his fable’s final words.

To this day, she waits alone, dancing in the moonlight and mist, for a man long dead to return. He couldn’t have been more clear. The man I loved and threw away is gone.

Facing the emotional consequences of my actions, I square my shoulders and open my eyes. He’s watching me, one brow quirked in question. Or challenge.

I clear my throat. “Though you didn’t have to, thank you for coming to my defense tonight.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, glancing at the shadowed lectern. “But you’re right, I didn’t have to. You would have wiped the floor with her all on your own.”

“Maybe.” A grin steals my lips. “But I wouldn’t have done it so creatively. Imbecilic minger? I had to Google what that meant.”

He chuckles. “Despite the inevitable reprimand in my future, I don’t regret it. And she was ugly, at least on the inside.”

I nod, my smile fading as I take a deep breath and pray for the courage to speak the truth. “Thank you, James, for everything—your mentoring during my final year, for the beautiful biography of my father, for the support of my book…” My words trail off, squeezed back by fear.

For your belief in me.

For your belief in us.

For showing me that my scars are beautiful.

Green eyes spear mine; as always, I feel transparent beneath his gaze. “Like I told you from the beginning, your talent absolutely floors me. And in case that doubtful mind of yours ever wonders, falling for you had nothing to do with my academic or professional decisions.”

I crack a smile. “I know. If anything, you graded me ten times harder than anyone else.”

He swallows hard, gaze dropping to my lips. My breath catches and I sway toward him, my body overtaken by a powerful, unconscious drive to consume him and be consumed.

“James?” I whisper. “What are we doing?”

“No clue. As I said, I’m a masochist.” He licks his lips. “But if you keep looking at me like that, I might think you’ll let me bend you over these chairs.”

Our long-ago conversation ripples through my mind, confirming what I already know. It doesn’t make the knowledge any less painful. Nor does it relieve the ache I feel when, for brief moments, the man I loved resurfaces.

A man long dead.

A man I slew with my cowardice.

A man I’m still too much of a coward to tell how I feel—that I loved him three years ago and still do, that I dream about Sunday breakfasts with him, rolling on the floor with Rufus, and rainy nights of chess and cuddling on the couch.

The lecture hall’s doors open with a screech.

“James? Have you said your goodbyes yet? I’m starving!”

The petulant female voice resonates thanks to the lecture hall’s acoustics. Sharp heels clack toward us. A woman appears at the mouth of the small corridor, highlighted by the recessed lighting above her. As I take her in, a knot of dread builds in my stomach.

She’s a beautiful brunette, tall and willowy. Beneath her fashionable black trench coat is a tight emerald dress that accentuates her smooth, creamy skin and tiny waist. Her lips are carmine, her eyes boldly lined, and her features both sensuous and exotic.

James stands, waving her forward. She walks toward us, a wet dream on stilettos. When she’s close enough, he gives her a soft kiss near her ear. And when they face me, they’re holding hands.

“Jessica, meet Iris Eliot. Iris, this is Jessica Buchanan. She’s an architect at a firm downtown.”

I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t summon even the barest modicum of civility. And neither can she, apparently.

“I haven’t read your book but I’m sure it’s interesting.” She turns to James. “Can we go?”

My mouth falls open in shock. I look at James, expecting to see annoyance or hear his defense of me, but he merely shakes his head chidingly at Jessica. His smile is tolerant and amused, reminding me once again of the truth I haven’t fully accepted.

He’s not the same person.

Not mine.

“Of course, Jessica,” he says, then smiles at me. His eyes are distant, unfamiliar. “Congratulations again on the impressive turnout tonight. Take care, Iris.”

He slips an arm around Jessica’s waist. She smiles coyly at me as they turn and walk toward the exit. They move gracefully, their bodies in tune, two tall and slim silhouettes.

Before they leave my line of sight, I see Jessica’s hand skate down his broad back, tuck into a pocket of his jeans, and squeeze. I hear his soft, answering chuckle.

Dry-eyed and numb, I sit in the empty hall until an overnight janitor enters with a vacuum. Then I gather my purse from the floor and make the long, limping walk to my car.

By the time I arrive home, I’ve considered and discarded a hundred different plans for my future.

Moving to Canada.

Following Claire and Griffen to Houston.

Buying a farm in Santa Cruz.

Joining a commune, preferably overseas.

Pursuing my PhD at the University of Edinburgh, Scotland.

Although the last holds some appeal and is considered the longest, I eventually discard it, too. I’ve run away so many times in my life, a self-made victim of my emotions. I’ve run from my father, from memory, from pain, and out of fear, doubt, and self-loathing.

For a girl with a bum knee, I’ve been running a long time.

Maybe it’s time to stop.