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I can’t imagine I’m going to enjoy watching my wife sort through her suddenly unresolved feelings for her ex-boyfriend.

“I tried, I did. But that was humiliating and—” he broke off, drawing in a deep breath. “So while I appreciate your apology, I do not accept at this time.”

Molly stuttered, confused. “But—what?”

“An apology isn’t always enough,” he said. “I learned that one from the immaculate Molly Graham.”

“Well, I’m not her,” she snapped. Reaching over, she took Bishop’s glass, poured some alcohol in—scotch from the looks of it, her least favorite—and knocked it back.

“Furthermore,” she continued, then stopped. “Wait—why do I like that?” She reached for the bottle again, studying the label.

For the briefest, lost-to-the-ether kind of moment, Bishop’s fingers brushed hers as he took his drink back. “Because I have good taste, obviously.” A pause, followed by, “You were saying?” His voice had softened enough to convince Molly they weren’t about to cause a scene in a public place.

Molly steadied herself, hands on the bar in front of her. “I can’t be her, that version of me you knew. I’m not her. Not without the memories.”

Bishop took in another deep breath through his nose. He held his glass loosely, long fingers barely curling around the engraved edge. It canted in his grip. He let the bottom of it tap against the bar top once, twice, three times before he spoke, avoiding her eyes.

“You’re not two different people,” he told her. “You’re still you.”

Bishop let his glass fully rest on the countertop before running his thumb and forefinger over his brows. He dragged his hand through his hair, rife with frustrated body language. Molly realized her mouth had slipped open, deep in thought as she watched him.

“It wasn’t the same,” Molly said. “With Simon—that’s what I was thinking about. It was confusing that I didn’t feel how I expected to.”

Bishop let out another breath, close enough to a scoff that she couldn’t tell if he believed her. “I forgot you’re not cleared to drive yet,” he said abruptly, looking guiltily at his drink. “And I already asked a friend to pick me up.”

“What?”

“I need to . . . not be in that apartment with you. Get some space.” His voice was strained in a way that spoke to tightly leashed control.

Molly stood. “Oh. Right—I see.” She ran her hands down the soft fabric of her dress, suddenly self-conscious and uncertain what to do with herself. “I’ll catch a ride with Alannah and Roy then, maybe spend a little more time together.”

Bishop nodded stiffly, concluding his willingness to participate in this conversation.

Roy and Alannah’s town house was exactly the sort of place they’d all talked about finding once upon a time. Three narrow stories, a rooftop patio, and somehow in walking distance of both nature trails and a little collection of restaurants. It had a warm, lived-in quality that spoke to a long New England history tucked between the pages of a cozy book. Molly desperately wanted to see it in the fall: red brick and yellow leaves and orange pumpkins.

Roy paid the babysitter and checked on the kids, who had long gone to bed. Meanwhile, Alannah flopped onto the sofa, and Molly sank down beside her.

“That . . . could have gone better,” Alannah said.

“Sure couldn’t have gone any worse.” Molly slumped against a baseball-shaped throw pillow.

“I don’t know, Bishop could have challenged Simon to a duel.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t violent.”

“He isn’t. But the dramatic gesture is what counts.”

Roy reentered the room, sinking into a chair across from them. “Dramatic gestures? We discussing Bishop?”

“Mm-hmm,” Molly hummed. “How did I ever end up with him? He’s just some vain, stoic, slightly less obnoxious version of who he was in high school.” In a strange way, complaining about Bishop felt like the easiest topic to tackle. It was well-tread, familiar ground.

Alannah bit first. “From what I understand, you seem to like him. Really brings your taste into question, but here we are.” That last part should have been serious but sounded closer to sarcasm.

“Not me,” Molly said. “Her. A different . . . me. With different memories.”

“You’re still the same person, Molly,” Roy said softly.

Molly felt rooted to her spot. It was the same thing Bishop had said to her barely an hour earlier. Roy’s hazel eyes, when they met hers, delivered an instant shot of comfort straight to her nervous system. When he said it, Molly almost believed it, despite still feeling like an interloper in someone else’s reality.