On Friday evening, three days after meeting Miles Ryan, Sarah Andrews was alone in her living room, nursing her second glass of wine, feeling about as rotten as a person could feel. Even though she knew the wine wouldn’t help, she knew that she’d nonetheless pour herself a third glass just as soon as this one was finished. She’d never been a big drinker, but it had been that kind of day.  Right now, she just wanted to escape.

Strangely, it hadn’t started off badly. She’d felt pretty good first thing in the morning and even during breakfast, but after that, the day had nose-dived rapidly. Sometime during the night before, the hot-water heater in her apartment had stopped working and she’d had to take a cold shower before heading off to school. When she got there, three of the four students in the front of the class had colds and spent the day coughing and sneezing in her direction when they weren’t acting up. The rest of the class seemed to follow their lead, and she hadn’t accomplished half of what she’d wanted to. After school, she’d stayed to catch up on some of her work, but when she was finally ready to head home, one of the tires on her car was flat. She’d had to call AAA and ended up waiting nearly an hour until they showed up; and by the time she got back to her apartment, the streets had been roped off for the Flower Festival that weekend and she’d had to park three blocks away. Then, to top it all off, no more than ten minutes after she’d walked in the door, an acquaintance had called from Baltimore, to let her know that Michael was getting married again in December.  That was when she’d opened the wine.

Now, finally feeling the effects of the alcohol, Sarah found herself wishing that AAA had taken a little longer with her tire, so she wouldn’t have been home to answer the phone when it rang. She wasn’t a close friend of the woman’s—she’d socialized with Sarah casually, since she’d originally been friends with Michael’s family—and had no idea why the woman felt the urge to let Sarah know what was going on. And even though she had passed on the information with the proper mix of sympathy and disbelief, Sarah couldn’t help suspecting that the woman would hang up the phone and immediately report back to Michael how Sarah had responded. Thank God she’d kept her composure.  But that was two glasses of wine ago, and now it wasn’t so easy. She didn’t want to hear about Michael. They were divorced, separated by law and choice, and unlike some divorced couples, they hadn’t talked since their last meeting in the lawyer’s office almost a year earlier. By that point, she’d considered herself lucky to be rid of him and had simply signed the papers without a word. The pain and anger had been replaced with a kind of apathy, rooted in the numbing realization that she’d never really known him at all. After that, he didn’t call or write, nor did she. She lost contact with his family and friends, he showed no interest in hers. In many ways, it almost seemed as if they’d never been married at all. At least, that’s what she told herself.

And now he was getting married again.

It shouldn’t bother her. She shouldn’t care one way or the other.  But she did, and that bothered her, too. If anything, she was more upset by the fact that his impending marriage upset her than by the upcoming marriage itself.  She’d known all along that Michael would marry again; he’d told her as much.

That was the first time she’d ever really hated someone.  But real hate, the kind that made the stomach roil, wasn’t possible without an emotional bond. She wouldn’t have hated Michael nearly as much unless she’d loved him first. Perhaps naively, she had imagined that they would be a couple forever. They’d made their vows and promised to love each other forever, after all, and she’d descended from a long line of families that had done just that.  Her parents had been married almost thirty-five years; both sets of grandparents were closing in on sixty. Even after their problems arose, Sarah believed that she and Michael would follow in their footsteps. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but when he’d chosen the views of his family over his promise to her, she’d never felt so insignificant in her entire life.

But she wouldn’t be upset now, if she was really over him. . . .  Sarah finished her glass and rose from the couch, not wanting to believe that, refusing to believe it. She was over him. If he came crawling back to her right now and begged for forgiveness, she wouldn’t take him back. There was nothing he could say or do to ever make her love him again. He could marry whoever the hell he wanted, and it would make no difference to her.

In the kitchen, she poured her third glass of wine.

Michael was getting married again.

Despite herself, Sarah felt the tears coming. She didn’t want to cry anymore, but old dreams died hard. When she put her glass down, trying to compose herself, she set the glass too close to the sink and it toppled into the basin, shattering instantly. She reached in to pick up the shards of glass, pricked her finger, and it began to bleed.

One more thing on an already terrible day.

She exhaled sharply and pressed the back of her hand against her eyes, willing herself not to cry.

? ? ?

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

With crowds pressing in around them, the words seemed to fade in and out, as if Sarah were trying to listen to something from a distance.  “For the third time, I’m fine, Mom. Really.”

Maureen reached up and brushed the hair from Sarah’s face. “It’s just that you look a little pale, like you might be coming down with something.” “I’m a little tired, that’s all. I was up late working.”

Though she didn’t like lying to her mother, Sarah had no desire to tell her about the bottle of wine the night before. Her mother barely understood why people drank at all, especially women, and if Sarah explained that she’d been alone as well, her mother would only bite her lip in worry before launching into a series of questions that Sarah was in no mood to answer.  It was a glorious Saturday, and the downtown area was thronged with people. The Flower Festival was in full swing, and Maureen had wanted to spend the day browsing among the booths and in the antique stores along Middle Street. Since Larry wanted to watch the football game between North Carolina and Michigan State, Sarah had offered to keep her company. She’d thought it might be fun, and it probably would have been, if it hadn’t been for the raging headache that even aspirin couldn’t ease. As they talked, Sarah inspected an antique picture frame that had been restored with care, though not enough care to justify the price.  &ldq............