“Is it still there?”

He shook his head. “Long gone. Demolished. I’d never have bought it. Practicalities.” He snuck a look my way. “I can’t avoid them.”

“No one can, not if they have a drop of sense. You’d go back, and you’d see that it’d be a money pit in a bad neighborhood, and you’d feel like you’d lost that dream. Better it was removed due to circumstances beyond your control.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly.” He sipped from the bottle this time. “I would have felt guilty choosing, too. I’d want the condo, and I’d feel like I abandoned the house. Which sounds silly.”

“It’s not about the house. It’s about the dream.”

“Yes.” Another gulp of wine before he passed it back. “The condo was a dream, too. When I was in college, I had to do a joint project. Normally, I could wriggle out of them or do all the work myself, but this guy insisted on working together. We’d go to his father’s, an apartment in the building where I live now. I’d see that view and . . .”

“You wanted it.”

“I did. Part of it was just setting the goal. This is what I’ll have someday. A status symbol. But really, I wanted the view.”

“It’s a million-dollar one.”

“It is.” A crooked smile. “Luckily, when the housing market crashed, I got it for less. But it was nice to achieve that goal earlier than I expected.” He undid the top button on his shirt and leaned back, his hands braced behind him. “I wouldn’t mind a secondary residence. As an investment, of course. That’s the only way I could justify it. But . . .” He took off his shades, the sun having dropped almost below the horizon. “Someplace quieter. The condo is quiet, in its way . . .”

“But it’s still in the heart of a very big city.”

“It is.”

I took a hit from the wine bottle. “So tell me what you’d want. Perfect world. No practicalities.”

“There are always practicalities.”

“Pretend there aren’t.”

When he said, “I don’t think I can,” there was a look in his eyes almost like panic.

“Allow for them, then,” I said. “Just don’t dwell on them. What would you want? Forest, lake, mountain, ocean . . .”

“Meadow,” he said. “Not the most exciting landscape—”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s whatever you want.”

“Meadow, then,” he said. “Grass as far as the eye can see. A stream running through it. Forest around it, blocking everything else. I’d build a house . . .”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

We talked about our dream homes. Then we talked about whatever came to mind, chasing tangents as we emptied the bottle and evening turned to night, the moon reflecting off the water, lighting the dark shore to twilight.

It wasn’t just the alcohol. We’d hit a milestone, a huge one, and though it didn’t solve Gabriel’s problem—he was still charged with murder—that didn’t seem to matter tonight. It was a start, and that false charge was connected to my parents’ crimes, which meant it was still progress.

Tonight, we had wine and we had solitude. And I had him. For one night, I had Gabriel—really had him, the secret him, the hidden one, lazing on the bank, shirtsleeves rolled up, those light blue eyes like faded jeans, warm and comfortable. I had him talking. I had him smiling. I even had him laughing. And as I lay on my side, watching him tell me a story, I knew I loved him. I couldn’t brush it off as “not that way,” as platonic love, as intellectual love. It was that way.

I loved Gabriel. And I loved Ricky. It wasn’t the same, but it wasn’t different enough, either, not as different as it should have been, not as different as I wanted it to be. That twisted and burned. I wasn’t this person. I’d never been this person. I gave myself to one man at a time, and I never so much as looked in another direction—and now that one acknowledged truth had been warped. I was still fiercely loyal—to two men. Two men I loved. Two men I’d do anything for. Give anything to protect.

That was fickle. It was selfish. It was wrong. And it wasn’t fair to the guy who thought he had all of me, committed and faithful in every way.

I would never cheat on Ricky. If Gabriel had given some sign that he wanted more, had leaned over and kissed me, I’d have pulled back and said no. What mattered was that I wouldn’t want to say no.

Even if a romantic relationship with Gabriel wasn’t an option, I had to choose: break it off with Ricky or commit myself to him. Work with Gabriel, yes. Be his friend, yes. Sit on a beach, drinking and talking, for half the night? No. That was where I went too far.

The realization that I had to make that choice should have been like falling into the cold water of Lake Michigan. I should have staggered to my feet, blurted some excuse, and escaped, fleeing this perfect evening as fast as I could.

I didn’t. The realization came hard and painful but bittersweet, too, as if I’d been mentally picking my way across the rocks for weeks now, this destination in view, getting ever closer until I reached it, dreading it a little, but knowing I had to get there. I had Gabriel—really had him—for those few hours, and maybe after tonight I’d choose to step back and I’d never have this again, and if that was the case, then I was grabbing it with both hands and hanging on while I could.