Finally Mom began to wind down. “Just calling to say hello, doll face. We’ll talk later.”

For the first thirty-plus years of his life, Myron had lived with his parents in the New Jersey suburb of Livingston. As an infant he’d started life in the small nursery upstairs on the left. From the age of three to sixteen, he lived in the bedroom upstairs on the right; from sixteen to just a few months ago, he’d lived in the basement. Not all the time, of course. He went to Duke down in North Carolina for four years, spent summers working basketball camps, stayed on occasion with Jessica or Win in Manhattan. But his true home had always been, well, with Mommy and Daddy—by choice, strangely enough, though some might suggest that serious therapy would unearth deeper motives.

That changed several months ago, when Jessica asked him to move in with her. This was a rarity in their relationship, Jessica making the first move, and Myron had been deliriously happy and heady and scared out of his mind. His trepidation had nothing to do with fear of commitment—that particular phobia plagued Jessica, not him—but there had been rough times in the past, and to put it simply, Myron never wanted to be hurt like that again.

He still saw his folks once a week or so, going out to the house for dinner or having them make the trip into the Big Apple. He also spoke to either his mom or his dad nearly every day. Funny thing is, while they were undoubtedly pests, Myron liked them. Crazy as it might sound, he actually enjoyed spending time with his parents. Uncool? Sure. Hip as a polka accordionist? Totally. But there you go.

He grabbed a Yoo-Hoo from the refrigerator, shook it, popped the top, took a big swig. Sweet nectar. Jessica yelled in, “What are you in the mood for?”

“I don’t care.”

“You want to go out?”

“Do you mind if we just order in?” he asked.

“Nope.” She appeared in the doorway. She wore his oversize Duke sweatshirt and black knit pants. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Several hairs had escaped and fell in front of her face. When she smiled at him, he still felt his pulse quicken.

“Hi,” he said. Myron prided himself on his clever opening gambits.

“You want Chinese?” she asked.

“Whatever, sure. Hunan, Szechwan, Cantonese?”

“Szechwan,” she said.

“Okay. Szechwan Garden, Szechwan Dragon, or Empire Szechwan?”

She thought a moment. “Dragon was greasy last time. Let’s go with Empire.”

Jessica crossed the kitchen and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Her hair smelled like wildflowers after a summer storm. Myron gave her a quick hug and grabbed the delivery menu from the cabinet. They figured out what they’d get—the hot and sour soup, one shrimp entree, one vegetable entree—and Myron called it in. The usual language barriers applied—why don’t they ever hire a person who speaks English at least to take the phone order?—and after repeating his telephone number six times, he hung up.

“Get much done?” he asked.

Jessica nodded. “The first draft will be finished by Christmas.”

“I thought the deadline was August.”

“Your point being?”

They sat at the kitchen table. The kitchen, living room, dining room, TV room were all one big space. The ceiling was fifteen feet high. Airy. Brick walls with exposed metal beams gave the place a look that was both artsy and railroad station-like. The loft was, in a word, neat-o.

The food arrived. They chatted about their day. Myron told her about Brenda Slaughter. Jessica sat and listened in that way of hers. She was one of those people who had the ability to make any speaker feel like the only person alive. When he finished, she asked a few questions. Then she stood up and poured a glass of water from their Brita pitcher.

She sat back down. “I have to fly out to L.A. on Tuesday,” Jessica said.

Myron looked up. “Again?”

She nodded.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. A week or two.”

“Weren’t you just out there?”

“Yeah, so?”

“For that movie deal, right?”

“Right.”

“So why are you going out again?” he asked.

“I got to do some research for this book.”

“Couldn’t you have done both when you were there last week?”

“No.” Jessica looked at him. “Something wrong?”

Myron fiddled with a chopstick. He looked at her, looked away, swallowed, and just said it: “Is this working?”

“What?”

“Our living together.”

“Myron, it’s just for a couple of weeks. For research.”

“And then it’s a book tour. Or a writer’s retreat. Or a movie deal. Or more research.”

“What, you want me to stay home and bake cookies?”

“No.”

“Then what’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” Myron said. Then: “We’ve been together a long time.”

“On and off for ten years,” she added. “So?”

He was not sure how to continue. “You like traveling.”

“Hell, yes.”

“I miss you when you’re gone.”

“I miss you too,” she said. “And I miss you when you go away on business too. But our freedom—that’s part of the fun, isn’t it? And besides”—she leaned forward a little—“I give great reunion.”

He nodded. “You do at that.”

She put her hand on his forearm. “I don’t want to do any pseudoanalysis, but this move has been a big adjustment for you. I understand that. But so far I think it’s working great.”

She was, of course, right. They were a modern couple with skyrocketing careers and worlds to conquer. Separation was part of that. Whatever nagging doubts he had were a by-product of his innate pessimism. Things were indeed going so well—Jessica had come back, she had asked him to move in—that he kept waiting for something to go wrong. He had to stop obsessing. Obsession does not seek out problems and correct them; it manufactures them out of nothing, feeds them, makes them stronger.

He smiled at her. “Maybe this is all a cry for attention,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Or maybe it’s a ploy to get more sex.”

She gave him a look that curled his chopsticks. “Maybe it’s working,” she said.

“Maybe I’ll slip into something more comfortable,” he said.