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“Hey,” Jackson says softly, rousing me from the memory. “Why are you still up?” His voice is creaky from sleep.

I shrug, though he can’t see it in the darkness of the bedroom.

“Come here.” He pulls toward me, and I inhale his scent of sandalwood and vanilla that even seven years later always reminded me of him, even when I was still close enough to remember why we’d come undone. As the years went on, those reasons, as they tend to do, became murkier, like a pond after a rainstorm, and after I got home from my power walk with Ainsley on which she broke the news of his upcoming wedding, I locked myself in the bathroom and heaved out purging tears for nearly thirty minutes. Then I splashed my face with water, dotted concealer under my eyes, and headed toward the market. I had dinner to plan, a family to feed, after all.

Jack shifts himself on top of me and tugs down the strap of my tank top, fluttering kisses on my shoulder and across my collarbone. In response, my hips rise to his without question, and he presses back down on mine. Quickly, too quickly, I’m tossing my shirt over my head, and he’s making his way over my breasts, down to my belly button, then back up again, until the wait is almost unbearable, and I pull him inside of me.

Jesus Christ! I’d forgotten all about sex with Jack, I think. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus! Holy Lord, Jesus!

Jack and I find our rhythm easily, like it hadn’t been more than a half decade since I’d done this with him, like I hadn’t given myself to another man exclusively over the course of those years.

Shit, Henry. I hope for a fleeting second that this isn’t considered adultery, but realize that I haven’t technically met Henry, so I push the silly, inconsequential thought from my mind. It’s not hard to do.

Jack flips me on top of him, and I feel like my insides might explode.

It’s never like this with Henry, I think. Hasn’t really ever been like this with Henry. And then, that’s all I think about my soon-to-be or maybe-might-not-be husband because a few seconds later, I am awash in white heat and I can’t think of anything at all.

We collapse on top of each other, silent and sweaty. Enveloped in the security of his arms, his measured breath on my neck, I wonder if I really can do it all over again; if this time, I can do it right, and if so, what that might mean for my old past and, thus, for my new future.

SLEEP REFUSED ME. I try every trick I can think of, humming Katie’s favorite lullabies to myself, mimicking Jack’s breathing with my own, but nothing can slow down the racing in my mind.

It is clear, I realize once again with force, that there is no turning back from here. There is no trail of Katie’s Cheerios to chase around the house, none of Henry’s orange juice glasses to place in the dishwasher come morning. It is only me, this new life, and wherever it takes me.

I push myself up from the bed, rattling off any lingering grogginess, and wind my way into the spare bedroom, the one that Jack pretended was an office for his writing, but both of us knew was essentially a waste of square footage.

What if my other life was the one that I’d imagined? What if I never met Henry, never birthed Katie? What if this is all some sort of nauseating dream?

I feel my pulse tangibly speed up at the base of my neck. Because, true, I didn’t miss Henry all that much and, more true, this small taste of freedom, of reprieve, was so glorious it was like inhaling barrelfuls of sunshine on an arctic day, but still. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to forsake the memories of who I’d come to be, even though I realize, fully, that my regrets were both enormous and plentiful. But still.

And so, with a lucid mind and a shaking hand, I grab a pen from Jack’s Michigan cup and a notepad tucked away by his printer.

And then, I begin to put it all down, on record, in case I can never get it back, in case, really, this isn’t all a dream. Because whatever laments I might have, they’re still worth holding on to, even as I’m trying to let them