“I got hung up at an audition and then the bus was running late,” I tell her, answering the question she didn’t really ask.

She spins back to the kitchen. “How did it go?”

“Shi—” I catch myself, but Henri giggles anyway. That kid doesn’t miss much. He’s always been one of the most observant people I know. I think he’s at the age where kids start thinking cussing is funny. I give him a look and press my finger to my lips to shush him before Mallory gives me shit. “Pretty bad.”

“Bummer,” she calls from deeper in the kitchen.

Tell me about it.

I stand and grab Henri’s hand, tugging him up. “Let’s go decorate for your dad.”

He grins at me and charges into the dining room.

Mallory is a neat freak and the place is always spotless, despite the havoc of two young boys. I liked living here. It was a good place to heal. But a year after graduating high school, I moved to the city. Mallory was pretty upset that I didn’t apply to college, but even that felt like too much of a commitment. And by that time I’d decided to chase my dream of stage acting for a living anyway. Idol auditions were coming up and I was sure I’d turn my success there into a Broadway career.

Three and a half years later, I’m still tending bar.

“Do you want to help, Max?” I ask, stooping next to him.

“In a minute.” He still doesn’t look up from his game.

He shakes my hand off when I ruffle his strawberry-blond waves, so I stand and follow Henri into the dining room. When I get there I find he already has the streamers open and has unwound most of the roll, which is lying in a mound at his feet. I look around the room at the antique dining-room set and chandelier. “So how do you want to do this?”

A grin lights up his whole little face. “I want to decorate Dad.”

I laugh. “That would be interesting.”

He picks up the pile of streamers. “I’m going to tie him to his chair with these.”

“Maybe you should ask your mom about that.” I think it sounds fun, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what Mallory had in mind.

“Mom!” Henri wails, running toward the kitchen just as Rufus starts barking again. A second later, the front door swings open and Jeff steps through. Henri abruptly changes course and launches into him. “Dad!”

Jeff slips off his shoes then stoops down to hug him. “Hey, champ. How’s tricks?”

Henri climbs on his dad’s back as Jeff stands. “I’m going to tie you to your chair!”

“Really . . . ?” Jeff says with a grin. He gives me a wave as he piggybacks his son past me into the kitchen. “Hey, Hilary.”

“Happy birthday,” I tell him.

There’s a tug on my jeans and when I look down, Max has finally pulled himself away from the computer. I take his hand and we follow Jeff and Henri.

“Happy birthday, Daddy,” Max says quietly as we catch up to them in the kitchen.

Jeff has set Henri on the counter, where he’s happily swinging his legs and banging his heels into the cabinet below. He stoops down and waits for his youngest son to come to him. Max slowly makes his way the few steps between him and his dad, and Jeff folds him into his arms, hugging him tightly. But a second later, Max is backing out of his grasp and Jeff lets him go. It’s like Jeff craves his son, but knows Max can only handle so much. He’s willing to play by Max’s rules, greedily taking whatever affection Max will offer, but never pushing for more.

I wish I had a dad like Jeff.

I look at them together. Jeff is on the short side with a stocky build. His eyes are dark brown and his face is strong. Max is his spitting image except for his strawberry-blond waves. Jeff’s hair is sandy brown and bone straight.

“Happy birthday, Mr. LaForte,” Mallory says, stirring something simmering in a cast-iron skillet and smiling down at them.

“Why, thank you, Mrs. LaForte,” Jeff says with a grin. He stands and moves to Mallory at the stove, planting a kiss on her lips so tenderly that I have to look away. It feels too personal. “So what’s this about tying me to my chair?” he asks her as their lips part.

Mallory shoots me a look.

“I’m going to tie Daddy up!” Henri announces, banging both heels hard into the cabinet to punctuate his point.

Jeff’s gaze shifts to him, then back to me.

“With the streamers,” I clarify. “He wants to decorate you.”

Mallory rolls her eyes and turns back to the stove, stirring the pot. “You’re early,” she tells Jeff. “Dinner won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes.”

Jeff tugs at the collar of his button-down shirt. “Good. Then I have time to change.” He swings Henri off the counter on his way past, and his oldest follows him to the bedroom as Max goes back to the computer.

I lean into the counter. “So if you’re okay with the whole bondage thing, I guess I don’t need to put up any streamers.”

Mallory shoots a look over her shoulder. “Then make yourself useful and fill that pot with water and put it on to boil,” she says, tipping her head at a pot on the back burner.

I take it to the sink and start the water.

“What’s Brett doing tonight? Thought we might see him.”

“Rehearsal,” I lie. I’ve explained our deal to her over and over, but she doesn’t like it. She keeps thinking we’re going to fall madly in love, move into a house in Jersey with a picket fence, and have two point four kids and a dog, just like she did.

It’s not gonna happen.

I put the pot on and crank the burner just as Jeff comes back in wearing a green Heineken T-shirt and baggy black sweats.

“Is that any way to dress for your birthday dinner?” Mallory asks, waving a hand at him, exasperated.

He steps up behind her and pulls her into the curve of his body. “Are you saying you’d prefer me in my birthday suit?” he mutters in her ear.

She blushes and glances at me as if I’m still fourteen. “Jeff,” she says, slapping his wandering hand off her ass.

But she’s smiling.

I have the definite feeling that Mallory and Jeff still have a lot of sex. I remember hearing them when I was a teenager—the creak of bedsprings and their muffled moans.

I’d had sex before and it sounded nothing like that. I’d never moaned anyone’s name or said, “oh, God,” and I’d never giggled. So one night when they were doing it, I snuck down the hall to their door and pushed it open a crack. Henri was a baby, probably three months old or so, and he was asleep in a basket at Mallory’s side of the bed. The sheets were pooled on the floor on Jeff’s side and he and Mallory were naked on the mattress. Jeff was moving so slowly between Mallory’s legs that it looked like a dance. She was making these soft moaning sounds deep in her chest, and one at a time, she wrapped her legs around him, crossing them at the ankles and pulling him closer.

Jeff moaned as he sank himself into her and whispered, “I love you so much, baby.”

And a minute later, when I heard Mallory sniffle and saw Jeff reach up and wipe her cheek with his fingertips, I realized she was crying. But Jeff couldn’t be hurting her. He was being so gentle.

I backed away from the door and went back to my room thinking there must be something wrong with me, because that’s not what sex looked like when I did it.

Now I know there is.

Jeff grins and lets Mallory go. “I’ll pour the wine. You want a Coke or something, Hilary?” he asks, turning to me, and suddenly I feel like I’ve been caught watching, the voyeur I was all those years ago.

“Um . . . sure. Coke.” I’m twenty-two, but they won’t offer me wine . . . which is sort of ridiculous considering I work at a bar. We’ve never talked about it, but I think it’s because of rehab. Mallory’s afraid I’ll “slip.” I don’t tell them I was never an addict . . . that it was all just a big screwup. Because then I’d have to tell them the truth, and that’s much worse.

I STAY TO help put Henri and Max to bed, then head back to the city. There’s a sad-looking guy with long, stringy, gray hair sitting cross-legged at the base of the stairs as I make my way out of the subway. He’s playing his sax—a sad, slow song that I don’t recognize.