"What was going on? Why was Dex so upset?"

"He was upset? I don't remember." I look at the ceiling, wrinkle my forehead. "I don't think he was upset. Why do you ask?"

When trapped, answering a question with a question is always a sound tactic.

"No reason. It just seemed odd, is all."

"Odd?"

"I don't know. It's crazy…"

"What?"

"It's crazy, but… you guys looked like a couple."

I laugh nervously. "That is crazy!"

"I know. But as I was watching you two talk, I thought to myself that you would be way better with Dex. You know, better than he is with Darcy."

"Oh, come on," I say. More nervous laughter. "They look great together."

"Sure. Yes. They have all of that surface stuff. But something about them doesn't fit." She brings her water glass to her lips and inspects me over it.

Keep your day job, Hillary.

I tell her she is nuts, even though I love what she has just told me. I want to ask her why she thinks this. Because we both went to law school? Because we have some shared trait-more depth or dignity than Darcy? But I say nothing more, because it's always wise to say as little as possible when you're guilty.

Les barges into my office after lunch to ask me about another matter for the same client. I have figured out over the years that this is his awkward way of apologizing. He only comes by my office after an explosion, like the one this morning.

I swivel in my chair and give him the update. "I've checked all of the cases in New York. And federal cases too."

"Okay. But keep in mind that our fact pattern is unique," Les says. "I'm not sure the Court will care much about precedent."

"I know that. But as far as I can tell, the general holding we rely upon in Section One of our brief is still good law. So that's a good first step."

So there.

"Well, make sure you check case law in other jurisdictions too," he says. "We need to anticipate all of their arguments."

"Yup," I say.

As he turns to leave, he says over his shoulder, "Nice roses."

I am stunned. Les and I do not make small talk, and he has never commented on anything other than my work, not even a "How was your weekend?" on a Monday morning, or a "Cold enough out there for you?" when we ride the elevator together on a snowy day.

Maybe two dozen red roses make me seem more interesting. I am more interesting, I think. This affair has given me a new dimension.

I am shutting down my computer, about to leave work, with plans to see Dexter. We have not yet spoken, only traded a series of conciliatory messages, including one from me thanking him for the beautiful flowers.

Hillary appears in my doorway, on her way out. "You're leaving now too?"

"Yeah," I say, wishing I had slipped out ahead of her. She often asks me if I want to get a drink after work, even on Mondays, which virtually everybody else considers the only stay-in night of the week. She isn't so much a party girl, like Darcy, she just isn't one to sit home and do nothing.

Sure enough, she asks if I want to grab a margarita at Tequilaville, our favorite place near work despite-or maybe because of-the stale chips and touristy crowd. It is always a welcome escape from the predictable New York scene.

I say no, I can't.

Of course she wants a reason. Every reason I think of she can and will refute: I'm tired (c'mon, one drink?), I have to go the gym (blow it off!), I'm cutting back on alcohol (a blank, incredulous stare). So I tell her that I have a date. Her face lights up. "So ole Marky Mark's flowers worked their magic, huh?"

"You got me," I say, glancing at my watch for good measure.

"Where are you going? Or are you staying in?"

I tell her we're going out.

"Where?"

"Nobu," I say, because I ate there recently.

"Nobu on a Monday night, huh? He does dig you."

I regret my choice; I should have gone for the no-name neighborhood Italian restaurant.

"If the date ends before two, call me and give me the scoop," she says.

"Sure thing," I say.

I go home forgetting all about Marcus and Hillary.

"Thank you so much for seeing me," Dex says, as I open the door. He is wearing a dark suit and white shirt. His tie is removed, likely stuffed into his briefcase, which he puts on the floor right inside my door. His eyes are tired. "I didn't think you would."

I never considered not seeing him. I tell him this, realizing that it might erode my power. I don't care. It is the truth.

Both of us begin to apologize, moving toward each other awkwardly, self-consciously. He takes one of my hands in his, squeezes it. His touch is both soothing and electrifying. "I'm so sorry for everything," he says slowly.

I wonder if he knows to be sorry about the beach too, if that is included in "everything." I have replayed that scene over and over, mostly in sepia, like Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" video. I blink, squeezing the images out of my mind. I want to make up. I want to move on.

"I'm sorry too," I say. I take his other hand, but there is still much space between us. Enough to fit another person or two.

"You have no reason to be sorry."

"Yes I do. I had no right to be angry at you. I was so out of line… We weren't going to discuss anything until after July Fourth. That was the deal…"

"It's not fair to you," he says. "It's a fucked-up deal."

"I am fine with the way things are," I say. It's not exactly true, but I am afraid of losing him if I ask for more. Of course, I am terrified of truly being with him too.

"I need to tell you about that afternoon with Darcy," he says.

I know he is talking about the shower episode, and I can't bear to hear it. The sepia beach frolic is one thing, the up-close and color porn scene is another. I don't want a single detail from his perspective. "Please don't," I say. "You really don't have to explain."

"It's just that… I want you to know that she initiated it… Truly… I've been avoiding it for so long, and I just couldn't get out of it." His face twitches, a mask of guilty discomfort.

"You do not have to explain," I say again, more firmly. "She's your fiancee."

He nods, looking relieved.

"You know when the two of you were on the beach?" I ask quietly, surprising myself by bringing it up.

"Yeah," he says knowingly, and then looks down. "When I came back up to the towels, I knew. I knew you were upset."

"How did you know?"

"You heard me say your name and ignored me. You were so cool. Chilly. I hated that."

"I'm sorry. It's just that you looked so happy with her. And I felt so-so…" I struggle to find the right word. "Well, obsolete, used."

"You are not obsolete, Rachel. You are all I think about. I couldn't sleep last night. Couldn't work today. You are anything but obsolete." His voice has lowered to a whisper, and we have assumed the position of slow-dancers, my arms around his neck. "And you must know that I'm not using you," he says into my ear. I feel the goose bumps rising.

"I know," I say into his shoulder. "But it's just so weird. Watching you with her. I don't think I should go to the Hamptons with you both again."

"I'm so sorry," he says again. "I know. I just wanted to spend time with you."

We kiss once. It is a soft, closed-mouth kiss, our lips barely touching. There is no connotation of lust or sex or passion. It is the other side of a love affair, the part I like the best.

We move over to my bed. He sits on the edge, and I am cross-legged beside him.

"I just want you to know," he says, staring intently into my eyes, "that I would never do this if I didn't deeply care for you."

"I know," I say.

"And I'm… you know… taking this whole thing very seriously."

"Let's not talk about it until the Fourth," I say quickly. "That was the deal."

"Are you sure? Because we can talk about it now if you want."

"I'm sure. Positive."

And I am positive. I am afraid of any leads he might give me about our future. I can't bear the thought of losing him, but have yet to consider what it would be like to lose Darcy. To have done something so huge and all-encompassing and wrong and final to my best friend.

He tells me that it scares him how much I mean to him, do I know how much I mean to him?

I nod. I know.

He kisses me again, more intensely this time. Then I experience my first truly unbelievable make-up sex.

The next morning Hillary visits me on the way to her office. She asks me how my date went. I tell her it was great. She plops down in one of my guest chairs, placing her bottle of Poland Spring water and her sesame bagel on my desk. She leans back and slams my door with her elbow. Her face is all business.

It turns out that Marcus did indeed opt for the no-name Italian restaurant in his neighborhood. The same no-name Italian restaurant that for whatever reason also struck Hillary's fancy last night. A city of millions, and Marcus and Hillary were seated two tables apart, over identical plates of ravioli on a random Monday night. Welcome to Manhattan, a smaller island than you'd ever think.

"The only thing you didn't lie to me about," Hillary says, shaking her finger at me, "is that Marcus was, in fact, on a date. Just not with your lying ass-although the girl resembled you in the mouth and chin region."

"Are you mad?"

"Not mad, no."

"What then?"

"Well, for one, I'm shocked. I didn't think you were capable of such deceit." She looks impressed by this revelation. "But I'm also hurt that you feel you can't confide in me. I like to think of myself as your best friend-not some figurehead, a throwback from your high school days-your present-day best friend. Which brings me to my next point…" she says knowingly. She waits for me to fill the silence.