I shake my head and laugh as she slaps me a high five. It sure comes in handy to have a master rationalizer as your best friend.

So a few days later, I'm over at Richard's apartment, and we're making dinner. Or more accurately, I'm watching him make dinner and accepting small, uncomplicated assignments, like "wash lettuce" and "dice onion." I'm okay with the lettuce-washing; I take my time spreading the leaves on sheets of paper towel and then dabbing them dry before putting them into a big wooden salad bowl. Yet when I start slicing the onion in the wrong direction, Richard laughs and says, "Seriously, Parr, how can you not know how to cut an onion?"

"I know," I say, feeling a little chagrined. "I've learned a bunch of times-and then can never remember. It's the same with tomatoes."

He gently takes the knife from my hand and says, "Allow me."

I play helpless-which I guess isn't too much of an act-and watch his perfect slicing technique and fast, effortless chopping.

"Is it weird that that totally turns me on?" I ask. I've always had a thing for people with unexpected talents, and I wouldn't have pegged Richard as being particularly adept in the kitchen.

He laughs as I admire the crinkly lines around his eyes. He must have just showered before I arrived because his hair is still damp in the back and his cologne is a bit stronger than usual. He is barefoot, wearing dark jeans and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I watch him scrape the onion with the backside of the blade, transferring it from cutting board to his frying pan of olive oil. It makes a satisfying sizzling sound as he smugly says, "Voila!" Then he wipes his hands on a dish towel, opens a bottle of wine with a professional corkscrew-another thing I can't do-and pours two glasses. He hands me one, and we clink glasses without making a toast. I'm a fan of the no-toast, unless you have something really worthwhile to say. The here's to tonight or here's to the chef ox here's to us brand of toasting has a way of diluting the moment. Or worse, creating an awkward lull, sort of like the question, "What should we talk about now?" Besides, if a man really looks in your eyes at the second your glasses meet-as Richard just did-it can be far more enticing than words.

I smile as Richard steps toward me, leans down and kisses me. He is a good head taller than Ben, which makes kissing while standing more difficult. Most girls prefer tall men, but I've always liked the intimacy that comes with compatible heights. It makes for more intimate slow dancing. Among other things. Not that I would change a thing about Richard. I kiss him back and taste wine. I decide that the first kiss of the night is always the best. Maybe Richard is thinking the same thing because we linger for a moment before he turns toward the stove and stirs his onions.

"Now. Don't distract me," he says. "This is serious business."

I study his back and the way his neck looks bent over the stove and decide that it's as good a time as any to ask about the baptism. I will be casual, just float it out there. No need to beat around the bush with Richard. That's the beauty of our relationship. Or whatever it is that we have going on. No pretense necessary. So I blurt out the bald facts: Good friends had baby; baptism next weekend; Ben will be there; will you come?

He spins around, grinning. "So you want to make your ex-husband jealous?"

I start to stammer a denial but he interrupts and says, "No problem. I'm in. And don't worry." He holds up his wooden spoon like a sword. "I'll do you proud."

"That's not why I want you to come," I say. "I just… thought it would be nice for you to meet my friends."

"Right," Richard says, smirking. "A baptism is the typical, mainstream way to meet friends. As opposed to, say… a drink or brunch? Or God, really going out on a limb and having dinner?"

I can feel myself blushing. I should have known Richard would tease me. I must appear really embarrassed because he lets me off the hook. He puts his spoon down, lifts my chin with his thumb and kisses me again-but this time it's more of a "buck up, little camper" sort of kiss, as opposed to an "I can't wait to see you naked" kiss.

When we separate, he is grinning again. "Should I do that for your ex? Perhaps we could sit in the pew in front of him and just start making out in church?"

My face feels hot as I say, "The ceremony is in Central Park by the Shakespeare Garden. And anyway… it was a bad idea. Forget I asked."

I really don't want him to forget it, though. I want him to go with me. Because of Ben, yes. But more because I just want him there with me. Just as I told Jess. I consider telling him some of this but can't figure out how to say it without sounding unduly serious.

"Hey, Parr," he says with a troublemaker's grin, "I'm not gonna forget it. I wouldn't miss this one for anything."


I wake up the morning of the baptism to the sound of a hard rain-the sort of downpour that usually waits until midday. My first thought is that my hair looks awful in any sort of humidity. My second thought is that I'm going to have trouble getting a cab and that the only time I really hate the subway is when it rains. My third thought is that Annie's plan to have the baptism in Central Park is now off, and the rain plan is to hold the ceremony in her living room. Her tiny living room. Inviting Richard suddenly seems like a very bad idea. It's one thing to bring a guest to an outside, public venue. It seems very much another to bring one to a small Manhattan apartment.

It's too late to change my game plan, though, so I shower, dry my hair, and put on the outfit that Jess has laid out for me: one of her own, vintage black Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dresses. (Dresses are one of the few things Jess and I can share.) Jess also bought me a new pair of shoes-an early birthday present-a pair of Manolos with an army-green heel and ankle straps made of black and green fabric. I stand in front of the mirror, carefully put on my makeup and spritz on my perfume.

Except for the fact that I am somewhat overdue for highlights, I am pleased with the finished result. I look good but not so good as to look desperate to impress. After all, I really don't feel the need to impress Ben, a man who has seen me at my absolute worst. Yet I also don't like the idea of showing up worse than he remembers me. I call Jess into my room to get her final approval.

"You look awesome," she says, beaming. "Somewhat conservative and understated but with loads of style. If Tucker comes, she's going to be insanely jealous. I mean, she might even develop a girl crush."

I laugh and say, "What about accessories?"

"I was just getting to that. I think you should go simple. You don't want to look like a trend whore in her twenties. Just put on your blue opal ring and your pearls. That's it."

I nod and say, "What purse should I bring?"

"I'll get you my Dior clutch. It's perfect. And don't forget your big tortoiseshell sunglasses."

"But it's raining," I say.

"It might stop. Be prepared."

I take a deep breath, exhale, and say, "Jess, thank you. I love my shoes. I love you."

She laughs and says, "Just try to have fun. Smile a lot. Touch Richard on the arm as much as possible. Hell, touch Ben on the arm as much as possible."

She leaves to retrieve her clutch just as Richard calls.

"Okay. I got my crotchless chaps on," he says. "Is that okay with you?"

I laugh and say, "By definition, aren't chaps crotchless?"

"You have a good point. Wear a hat, and no one will notice."

He then informs me that he's going to swing by and pick me up in a cab. Problem solved on the transportation front. I think of how I always handled logistics with Ben. I was the designated airline ticket holder, for example. He would inevitably lose them. Or at least he would panic and think that he had lost them. I can see him now, wide-eyed, furiously patting his pockets and scrambling in his bag, convinced that they were gone. We had once joked that it was a good thing that we didn't have kids. Because Ben would surely leave the baby on the subway.

Richard interrupts my thoughts with an offer of Starbucks for the ride. "I'm picking one up for myself," he says. "This is the earliest social engagement I've ever had."

I envision a disastrous spilling scenario-it would be just my luck-and tell him no, thanks. Fifteen minutes and a final pep talk from Jess later, I am out the door. Richard has already arrived in a cab with his iced coffee.

He leans across the seat and opens my door. I slide in and say, "Hey! Where are your crotchless chaps?"

"Changed my mind," he says, kissing my cheek. "Hmmm. You smell nice… Let me guess-the ex-hubby's favorite perfume?"

I smile and tell him the truth. "His second favorite."

"Ahh. Strategic. If you pick his favorite, you'll appear to be pandering. Still thinking about him. If you pick his least favorite, you'll look spiteful… which would also indicate that you are still thinking about him."

I laugh, because his analysis is spot-on. It's so nice to be with a man who has no instinct for jealousy. As a result, I feel I can tell Richard anything.

"Guilty as charged," I say.

"So," Richard says, smirking. "Anything off the limits of discussion today?"

I tell him he should probably stay off the topic of divorce and babies. "Which includes, of course, getting a divorce because of babies. Other than that, go for it."

We head uptown to Annie and Ray's, hitting almost no traffic and arriving exactly on time. Richard pays for our cab, and we dart out of the backseat, umbrellaless, into the lobby where he tosses his empty coffee cup into a trash can. Annie and Ray buzz us up, and we climb the stairs, finding the door open a crack.