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  (Even if it makes me feel like less of a man)

  (Who am I to say that she's wrong?)

  But I can't even admit this last thought to myself, much less to Pastor Clive.

  "I don't think she really wants to hear what the church has to say."

  "I never said it would be an easy conversation, Max. But this isn't about sexual ethics. We're not anti-gay," Pastor Clive says. "We're pro-Christ."

  When it's put that way, everything becomes clear. I'm not going after Zoe because she hurt me or because I'm angry. I'm just trying to save her soul. "So what do I do?"

  "You pray. Zoe has to confess her sin. And if she can't, you pray for that to happen. You can't drag her to us, you can't force counseling. But you can make her see that there's an alternative." He sits down at his desk and starts flipping through a Rolodex. "There are some of our members who've struggled with unwanted same-sex attraction but who hold to a Christian worldview instead."

  I think about the congregation--the happy families, the bright faces, the glow in their eyes that I know comes from the Holy Spirit. These people are my friends, my family. I try to figure out who has lived a gay lifestyle. Maybe Patrick, the hairdresser whose Sunday ties always match his wife's blouse? Or Neal, who is a pastry chef at a five-star restaurant downtown?

  "You've met Pauline Bridgman, I assume?" Pastor Clive says.

  Pauline?

  Really?

  Pauline and I were cutting carrots just yesterday while preparing the chicken pies for the church supper. She is tiny, with a nose that turns up at the end and eyebrows plucked too thin. When she talks, she uses her hands a lot. I don't think I've ever seen her not wearing pink.

  When I think of lesbians, I picture women who look tough and scrappy, with spiked hair and baggy jeans and flannel shirts. Sure, this is a stereotype . . . but still, there's nothing about Pauline Bridgman that suggests she used to be gay.

  Then again, nothing about Zoe tipped me off, either.

  "Pauline sought the help of Exodus International. She used to speak at Love Won Out conferences about her experience becoming ex-gay. I think, if we asked, she'd be more than happy to share her story with Zoe."

  Pastor Clive writes Pauline's number down on a Post-it note. "I'll think about it," I hedge.

  "I would say, What do you have to lose? Except that's not what's important here." Pastor Clive waits until I am looking directly at him. "It's all about what Zoe has to lose."

  Eternal salvation.

  Even if she's not my wife anymore. Even if she never really loved me.

  I take the Post-it note from Pastor Clive, fold it in half, and slip it into my wallet.

  That night I dream that I am still married to Zoe, and she is in my bed, and we are making love. I slide my hand up her hip, into the curve of her waist. I bury my face in her hair. I kiss her mouth, her throat, her neck, her breast. Then I look down at my hand, splayed across her belly.

  It is not my hand.

  For one thing, there is a ring on the thumb--a thin gold band.

  And there's red nail polish.

  What's the matter? Zoe asks.

  There's something wrong, I tell her.

  She grabs my wrist and pulls me closer. There's nothing wrong.

  But I stumble into the bathroom, turn on the lights. I look into the mirror, and find Vanessa staring back at me.

  When I wake up, the sheets are drenched with sweat. I get out of Reid's guest room bed, and in the bathroom (careful not to look into the mirror) I wash my face and dunk my head under the faucet. There's no way I'll fall back asleep now, so I head to the kitchen for a snack.

  To my surprise, though, I'm not the only one awake at three in the morning.

  Liddy is sitting at the kitchen table, shredding a napkin. She's wearing a thin white cotton robe over her nightgown. Liddy actually wears nightgowns, the kind made out of fine cotton with tiny embroidered roses at the collar and the hem. Zoe usually slept naked, and if she wore anything at all, it was one of my T-shirts and a pair of my boxers.

  "Liddy," I say, and she jumps at the sound of my voice. "Are you all right?"

  "You scared me, Max."

  She's always seemed fragile to me--sort of like the way I picture angels, gauzy and delicate and too pretty to look at for long periods of time. But right now, she looks broken. There are blue half-moons under her eyes; her lips are chapped. Her hands, when they're not tearing the paper napkin, are shaking. "You need help getting back to bed?" I ask gently.

  "No . . . I'm fine."

  "You want a cup of tea?" I ask. "Or I could make you some soup . . . ?"

  She shakes her head. Her waterfall of gold hair ripples.

  It just doesn't seem right to sit down when Liddy's in her own kitchen, and when she's obviously come here to be by herself. But it doesn't seem right to leave her here, either. "I could get Reid," I suggest.

  "Let him sleep." She sighs, and when she does the small pile of shredded paper she's created is blown all around her, onto the floor. Liddy bends down to pick up the pieces.

  "Oh," I say, grateful for something to do. "Let me."

  I kneel before she can get there, but she pushes me out of the way. "Stop," she says. "Just stop." She covers her face with her hands. I cannot hear her, but I see her shoulders shaking. I know she's crying.

  At a loss, I hesitantly pat her on her back. "Liddy?" I whisper.

  "Will everyone just stop being so fucking nice to me!"

  My jaw drops. In all the years I've known Liddy, I've never heard her swear, much less drop the F-bomb.

  Immediately she blushes. "I'm sorry," she says. "I don't know . . . I don't know what's wrong with me."

  "I do." I slide into the seat across from her. "Your life. It isn't turning out the way you figured it would."

  Liddy stares at me for a long moment, as if she's never really looked at me before. She covers my hand with both of hers. "Yes," she whispers. "That's it exactly." Then she frowns a little. "How come you're awake, anyway?"

  I slide my hand free. "Got thirsty," I say, and I shrug.

  "Remember," Pauline says, before we get out of her VW Bug, "today is all about love. We're going to pull the rug out from beneath her because she's going to be expecting hate and judgment, but that's not what we're going to give her."

  I nod. To be honest, even getting Zoe to agree to meet with me had been more of an ordeal than I thought. It didn't seem right to set up a time under false pretenses--to say that I had paperwork for her to sign, or a financial issue to discuss that had something to do with the divorce. Instead, with Pastor Clive standing next to me and praying for me to find the right words, I called her cell and said that it had been really nice to run into her at the grocery store. That I was pretty surprised by her news about Vanessa. And that, if she could spare a few minutes, I'd really like to just sit down and talk.

  Granted, I didn't mention anything about Pauline being there, too.

  Which is why, when Zoe opens the door to this unfamiliar house (red Cape on a cul-de-sac, with an impressively landscaped front yard), she looks from me to Pauline and frowns. "Max," Zoe says, "I thought you were coming alone."

  It's weird to see Zoe in someone else's home, holding a mug that I bought her one Christmas that says I'M IN TREBLE. Behind her, on the floor, is a jumble of shoes--some of which I recognize and some of which I don't. It makes my ribs feel too tight.

  "This is a friend of mine from the church," I explain. "Pauline, this is Zoe."

  I believe Pauline when she says she's not homosexual anymore, but there's something that makes me watch her shake hands with Zoe all the same. To see if there is a flicker in her eye, or if she holds on to Zoe a moment too long. There's none of that, though.

  "Max," Zoe asks, "what's going on here?"

  She folds her arms, the way she used to do when a door-to-door salesman came around and she wanted to make it clear she did not have the time to listen to his spiel. I open my mouth to explain but then snap it sh