Exactly one week after the article in the New Yorker, I get the news that my publisher isn’t dropping me. For the millionth time, I say a prayer for gratitude that Rachel found me a liberal house to do business with. One who apparently has a firm, supportive stance on victim’s rights. Furthermore, since I didn’t write or endorse the article, in their eyes my professional reputation is unsullied.

Too bad not everyone agrees.

The P.O. Box listed for contact on my website is newly flooded with mail. Much of it is supportive and congratulatory, some of it hard-to-read commiseration from other victims of rape. But there’s also a renewed influx of hate-mail.

After the third disgusting letter, I ask Kim to take over my formerly enjoyable task of personally collecting and reading correspondence.

Just over three weeks have passed since I last saw or spoke to James. And finally, after a Sunday morning in which I do nothing but miss him, I grow a pair of Modern Woman Balls and use the phone.

“Hello, Iris.”

My heart jumps to my throat, cutting off my ability to speak.

“By your silence, I assume you still want to throttle me.”

I choke down racing pulse. “No.”

“No?”

“I don’t want to throttle you, at least not because of the article.”

“Hmm. Did you read it?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t hate me?”

“No.”

“Then why do you want to throttle me, pet?” A smile comes through the words. “Dare I assume it’s because I haven’t called?”

“Why haven’t you?” I blurt.

He pauses; when I hear a familiar creak, I realize he must be in his office on campus. “The truth? I was scared shitless you’d tell me off and never speak to me again.”

I imagine his face frowning, his eyes soft with worry. I think of the countless times he’s challenged me, enraged me, made me a better writer. A better woman.

“I’ve never taken you for a coward, James.”

He sucks in a breath. “Iris?”

“Are you still seeing Jessica?”

He chuckles. “No. Not since the night of your jealous outburst.”

I grin in spite of myself. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Checkmate.

* * *

At quarter till seven, I step outside to wait for James. I’ve been showered, dressed, and ready for two hours, and I’m so nervous my armpits feel damp despite a fresh layer of antiperspirant.

Everything about this moment feels significant. Despite our past sexual history, we’ve never been on an actual date. Our initial attraction to each other always sat in conflict to his role as my professor. Already on volatile ground, our relationship had imploded at the first hint of conflict.

Granted, our conflicts had been of the extreme variety.

But he’s not my professor anymore, and I’m not his slightly awed TA and student. He’s my professional peer. And more importantly, I no longer feel less talented, less mature, less capable than him. I know full well that he never made me feel that way—if anything, he insisted the opposite was true. I also know that my fears played a large role in our demise.

“Butterfly, butterfly,” I chant under my breath. “You’re a beautiful-effing-butterfly.”

The affirmation alleviates some of my emotional jitters, softening jagged edges with humor. When I see his car turning the corner nearest my house, though, I almost throw up.

He pulls up to the curb outside my house and rolls down the passenger window. “Don’t even think about running inside right now. I’ll break down that door and throw you in the trunk if necessary.”

Shocked laughter bursts out of me. This man is seriously too smart for his own good.

His teasing smile pulls me toward him as surely as a rope. Within a minute, I’m inside the car and buckling my seatbelt. I’m grateful to see that he’s wearing jeans, and even more grateful I’d followed instinct and not worn a dress.

“Nervous, eh, pet?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t rub it in.”

He chuckles and puts the car in drive, then pulls away from the curb. “If it helps at all, I’m nervous, too. But more in a what-are-the-chances-I’m-getting-laid-tonight sort of way.”

I groan-laugh. “Still such a prick.”

“Undoubtedly,” he agrees, “but you don’t look green anymore. I suppose that makes me a brilliant prick.”

I smile, turning my head to see where we’re going. He’s not driving toward the bustling streets of Capitol Hill or in the direction of downtown, but east into an older, more affluent neighborhood.

Excitement brings me upright. “Are you taking me where I think you are?”

He glances at me with a soft smile. “I thought there might be someone you’d like to see.” When I nod happily, he laughs. “He’ll be very glad to see you, too.”

Before long, he pulls the car into a short driveway before a modest gate. Rolling down his window, he punches a series of numbers on a keypad.

I gape at what lies beyond the gate. Huge trees create a picturesque frame for the stately home, grey with white trim and navy front door. Unlike the newer construction of his prior home, this one looks like it’s seen a century or so, and aged more gracefully than any of us can hope for ourselves.

“Are you shitting me right now?”

He drives through the gate and into a carport nestled against the side of the house. “Unlike other things, it’s smaller than it looks.”

I slap his shoulder for the bad joke, then hasten out of the car, beating him to the side door in my anticipation.

He laughs. “It’s just a house.”

“Whatever. I have a thing for old houses. Just let me geek out, okay?” Something heavy thumps against the other side of the door. “Rufus!”

He barks, then whines.

Without further ado, James unlocks the door. Although I take a step forward, I don’t actually make it into the house. Rufus jumps faster than James can grab for him. Eighty pounds of muscle and fur slam into me at the same time a slobbery tongue finds my neck.

After stumbling back a few steps, I regain my footing. Rufus continues licking my neck and face as I rub my hands vigorously over his sides.

“Oh, that’s a good boy. Yes, you are. The best boy. I knew you loved me more than your daddy. I’ve missed you too, buddy.”

Standing with one hand braced on the doorframe, James laughs until tears leak from his eyes.