Wheeler moves out the day after their first round of IVF is confirmed to have failed.

He didn't even want a baby, not really. But Trish, who decided they should start trying as soon as they came back from their honeymoon, was determined to have one.

She bought ovulation trackers and pregnancy tests and lubricants that purported to increase the chance of conception, talking him through the process as though he was a fucking teenager and not a grown man of twenty-seven.

'Let's just see what happens,' Wheeler told her, scratching his head. 'We don't need all this.'

'But I really, really want a baby,' Trish replied, her face serious. 'And this will make it happen quicker. Trust me.'

So Wheeler shrugged, and let Trish do her thing. He'd learnt, over the past few years, that it was easier just to let Trish have her way than to fight his corner.

He's drifting on Trish's wave of upward social mobility and determination to succeed, he knows. But the ride isn't particularly unpleasant, and he doesn't think about the day it might all come crashing back down to the shore.

But conception doesn't happen immediately, or even over the next year, so Trish changes tactics. She starts feeding him supplements and making them both go to an acupuncturist as well as a holistic therapist. Twice a month he's shoved full of needles while he takes so many vitamins that even his piss starts to smell of flowers.

But still, nothing.

When Trish first suggests they go for tests, Wheeler blanches. He's twenty-eight, and this all feels like too much, too soon. But he's tired of seeing Trish cry every month when evidence of their failure to conceive surfaces, and he's really fucking tired of seeing her sad face and woebegone eyes. All the life and joy and spark seems to have disappeared from his wife, and sometimes he looks at her and wonders where Trish- his Trish- has gone.

He wants the girl who spray-painted graffiti all over Brooklyn back. He wants the girl who stood up to an eco-villain with him, full of fire and spirit, once more. He wants the girl he passionately kissed in the Hudson, their clothes soaked to their skin, their hands slippery and searching, to return to him.

Once upon a time, he loved that girl.

Or at least, he liked her enough to marry her.

And that's a scary realisation for Wheeler. That perhaps he mistook adrenaline for passion. That perhaps he mistook admiration for attraction. That perhaps he mistook familiarity for fate.

That, just perhaps, he knew he couldn't have the blonde he really wanted, so he married the next best thing.

Still, he drifts with Trish a little longer.

The IVF is punishing, a relentless routine of needles, hormones and prescribed sex. Whatever passion he and Trish once had recedes completely, and when tests confirm that Trish is the one with the problem, he loses a little more of her.

'It's not your problem,' he reassures her desperately. 'We're married. It's our problem.'

But Trish feels more and more like a stranger, and when he comes home one evening and sees her sitting at their dining room table- their ten-seater, mahogany dining table that they- no, she - had imported from India, a bottle of wine by her side, he feels a dart of trepidation.

'Is that a good idea?' He asks, nodding to the wine.

'I'm not fucking pregnant,' she spits back, and he sits at the far end of the table, running his hands through his hair.

'Oh,' he exhales, and she gives him a bitter smirk.

'I'll bet she doesn't have a problem getting knocked up. Probably has a fucking perfect Slavic womb to go with her perfect hair and perfect body and perfect mind.'

At this moment, the wave Wheeler's been riding with Trish comes crashing back to shore with a massive swell, and he feels the air ripped from his lungs.

Because, in all these years, they've never once mentioned her.

'I wouldn't know,' he treads the proverbial water carefully. 'I haven't seen her in years.'

But Trish shakes her head at him, her platinum hair perfectly styled even in her misery, and she nudges the bottle towards him.

'Have some.'

'Nah,' he pushes the bottle back. 'I'm okay.'

'I'm not,' Trish retorts, closing her eyes. 'I'm not okay at all.'

'What can I do?' He asks, his voice a plea.

She opens her eyes and looks directly at him. 'Well,' she says coldly. 'You could stop fucking loving her for one thing.'

'I'm not in love with her,' he protests instantly, but Trish gives a bitter half-laugh and looks away.

'You've been telling me that same lie for years now. Fuck, who knows, maybe you've also been telling it to yourself,' Trish shrugs. 'But yeah, you do love her. You fell in love with her the moment you met her, and you've carried on loving her since.'

'Trish...'

'No,' she says firmly. 'I'm fucking done with it. I'm tired of seeing you turn in the street whenever you hear a Russian accent. I'm tired of seeing you look all soft-faced and nostalgic when you hear her name. I'm tired of finding her work all over your kindle. I'm tired of pretending I'm what you want when we both know I'll never be her.'

'Trish,' he says honestly. 'I never wanted you to be her. I only ever wanted you to be you.'

She looks at him with her glassy eyes, long and hard.

'You know something? I think you mean that. You sound so fucking genuine. But you want to know something else? I've spent the last... What is it now? Eight years? I've spent eight years trying to be something I'm not in this fucked up and vague attempt to replace her in your affections. Because let's face it, the Trish you walked away from when we were seventeen wasn't enough for you.'

Wheeler opens his mouth to protest, but Trish shakes her head.

'No,' she says bluntly. 'Don't try and deny it. You walked away from me then for this glamorous life saving eco-systems and helping the miserable lives of others, and you did so in part because you wanted to, in part because you were asked to, but mostly because she was there, lighting your fucking way. And then when she wouldn't have you and you came across me again, you were all too happy to jump back into my bed. But I still wasn't enough for you.'

Trish reaches for the wine, pouring another large glass and drinking of it deeply. A ruby droplet sits on her lip and she brushes it away with her sleeve.

'You stopped calling me,' she says, suddenly accusing. 'It was like a switch flipped. One weekend you were all over me and then the next you were conveniently busy. Kwame and Gi made excuses for you, but I figured it out when three months went by without a fucking sound from you.'

'Oh yeah?'' Wheeler asks, abruptly in no mood to placate his drunk wife. 'What'd you figure?'

'That you'd started fucking her. That she'd suddenly decided you were good enough for her after all, and like a good fucking dog, when she whistled you came. Probably several times, you were so hot for her,' Trish suddenly giggled. 'Like you were the bitch when really she was, hey Wheeler?'

Involuntarily, his fist clenched. 'Don't talk about her like that,' he says.

'Why not? She is a bitch,' Trish shrugs, drinking another mouthful of wine. 'But you wanted her all the same. So tell me, now that we're finally being honest with one another... did you fuck her?'

She looks genuinely interested, and he reaches for the wine. At this point, she's had enough. He might as well finish the bottle.

'Yeah,' he confesses, his voice soft. 'Yeah. I did.'

'Was she any good?'

He shakes his head, taking a long drink of his own.

'That,' he tells her bluntly, 'is none of your Goddamn business.'

'I'm your fucking wife,' Trish spits. 'Of course it's my business.'

'No,' he argues. 'No. For one thing, it's all done with and in the past. For another thing, it's between me and her. So, whatever role you play in my life now, and no matter how loyal I am to you- because I am, Trish, I really fucking am- you don't get to own either that past or that relationship. And, if we're going to survive this bullshit issue, you need to let it go.'

'Yeah, like you've let her go,' Trish mocks, and Wheeler shrugs.

'I let her go a long time ago, Trish. Way before you and I became you and I for keeps.'

Abruptly, Trish stands. On unsteady legs, she stumbles towards him, pulling something from her pocket and throwing it on the table before him.

It's a bracelet, faded and worn, four strands of rope held together with a silver clasp.

Instantly, Wheeler's on his feet.

'Where the fuck did you get that?' He roars, although he already knows the answer.

He's been keeping it quietly in a box in his wardrobe. A box that is securely locked. A box he only opens every so often, when everything feels like too much and he needs to feel calm and balance again.

To see it in Trish's fingers, to see it thrown so haphazardly on this fucking awful table, makes Wheeler's heart quicken with anger and betrayal.

But Trish only laughs in the face of his fury.

'Yeah,' she slurs. 'Yeah, you really have let go of her, haven't you?'

Wheeler takes a deep, steadying breath.

'What do you want out of this, Trish? Cut all the jealous bullshit and just tell me what you want.'

Trish stares at him, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.

'I want you,' she says slowly, 'to go back in time and choose me.'

'Trish...'

'I want to be seventeen again, and for you to toss that fucking ring back into the trash can from where it came. I want you to say, 'nah, I'd rather have you,' and not choose the life you did.'

Wheeler stares at her, his heart breaking.

'I want you to go back in time to when we were twenty. I want you to kiss me again in the Hudson, and then tell Gaia and the other Planeteers to go fuck themselves. I want you to tell them that you're done, that you're staying with me.'

'Trish...' he whispers again.

'I want you to come back to me, aged twenty-three, and not look so depressed because you'd lost her. I want to be enough for you. I want you to say, 'Yeah, she was fun, but she wasn't you, Trish,' rather than it being the other fucking way around. I want you to marry me because you wanted me and not because you couldn't have her.'

He feels a tear run down his cheek and he hates himself for showing such emotion. But Trish is also crying, her tears running full and free, and he knows that this is the end.

'I want you to choose me,' Trish finishes weakly. 'But you never will. She'll always be there in the background. She'll always be the dream. She'll always be the one for you.'

He nods.

Because this is the end.

He's drifted on Trish's wave long enough.

'I really wanted this to work with you,' he says. 'I really tried.'

'Yeah, I know,' Trish nods, and there is compassion in her face. 'You were so determined to get over what happened with the Planeteers, what happened with her, that you blindly stumbled back to me. And I was so determined to heal my hurt pride that you'd left me twice already that I took you back without really thinking about it. Everything I've done since then, I've done to try and keep you. To try and stop you from leaving me again... the career, the house, the marriage... even...' her voice breaks, 'even the baby. But I'm done now. I'm done pretending. I'm done with it all.'

They stand for a moment in silence. The quiet is as thick as the lump in Wheeler's throat, and he reaches for Trish blindly.

For ten minutes, they cry in the other's arms.

But it's Trish who eventually pulls away.

'Will you go to her now?' She asks, her voice quiet, the hurt ever-present.

He knows that, in this moment, Trish needs to hear a lie. 'No,' he whispers, squeezing her fiercely.

But she knows him too well, and laughs into his shoulder.

'You mean not yet. You will. You and her... Wheeler...' Trish stops and sighs. 'You can't fight fate.'

He goes back to his old apartment. His mother has retired to Florida on his dime, while his father is dead. The place is his.

He decorates his home just how he wants it. A mix of eclectic colours and prints on the wall with haphazard and bright furniture scattered about. He's messy, and so is his home. Messy, fuss-free, and his. One day, when he's finished work and throws open the door to his place, it suddenly hits him that he's painted the walls colours that remind him of Hope Island. There are waves in one place for Gi, earthenware jugs that remind him of Kwame, and a forest green kitchen that makes him want to weep for Ma-Ti.

But it's his bedroom that surprises him the most. Because above his bed he's put prints of birds, so that when he closes his eyes at night, Linka is always the last thing on his mind, and when he opens them in the morning, she's the first thing he thinks of.

He decides he likes his home.

He likes his home a lot.

He drops the acupuncturist and holistic therapist in favour of a real therapist. Once a week he meets with Dr. Lambert, and he talks.

He talks, and he talks, and he talks.

He tells Dr. Lambert all about his parents, about his drunk-ass mother and abusive father.

He tells Dr. Lambert about Trish, about the girl who was meant to be 'the one' until he actually met 'the one'.

'It should've been the perfect story, you know,' he explains. 'Me, the bad kid made good, and her, my childhood sweetheart turned bad. We met again and had this great adventure. We saved each other's lives and then kissed in the fucking Hudson. It was the perfect story,' he looks up, his eyes sad. 'So why didn't it have the perfect ending? Why did we end like this?'

Dr. Lambert considers him. 'Well, you had one perfect story with her. How many did you have with other women?'

Hundreds, he thinks, immediately picturing Linka. Maybe thousands. He can't think of a moment with her that wasn't perfect.

Except, perhaps, for the last ones.

So, then they talk about Ma-Ti.

They talk about blame.

They talk about guilt.

For a long time, they discuss his hero complex.

And then, eventually, they discuss Linka. At first, he's tentative to even mention her name. The two syllables feel almost wrong on his lips. He's hidden her and everything about her away for so long. But, after some gentle coaxing from Dr. Lambert, he soon opens up.

Wheeler's surprised by how cathartic and healing it is to talk about her freely, to think about her and remember her, without fear of discovery or recriminations. He laughs and he smiles and he has bleak moments recalling his time with her. Dr. Lambert lets him talk, and then, when he falls silent, leans towards him.

'You're a good man, James. And you're a worthy one. You should let yourself be open to happiness again, and I don't- not necessarily- mean with Linka, or in any other relationship.'

A year after his divorce, and he's feeling good. Probably the best he's felt in years. He changes the tone of his show, making it more serious and less irreverent. He exercises and eats well. He's still not a vegan, but he's given up red meat so there's less guilt there too.

He's realised that he was a mess of contradictions. A perfect storm of conflicting feelings. Confident but guilt-stricken. Proud but uncertain. Passionate but repressed.

He indulges his feelings a little more now.

He's no longer hiding behind another person, or a false front of indifference.

He tries calling Gi, but the last number she left with him no longer rings. A search on the internet reveals nothing, and he sighs as he puts down his iPad.

Maybe he's just not meant to be in touch with her. Maybe he'll never see her again.

And maybe, while that's sad, it's okay.

He calls Kwame, who does answer. He apologises for his last phone call, over a year ago. He apologises for not calling more often, for letting them drift apart.

But when Kwame replies, it's with warmth in his voice. And so they talk. For an hour, they talk.

And Wheeler doesn't ask about Linka once.

This call is about Kwame. About the man he once thought of as a brother.

And it's good to say goodbye to him, and know that it won't be for long.

He tries dating, but his heart's not really in it. He misses sex, but not enough to indulge in a one-night-stand, like he used to. Besides, it's easy to admit now that he doesn't miss sex so much as sex with a particular person.

All in all, when Wheeler wakes in the morning, he's happy. When he sleeps at night, it's without guilt. He no longer flinches when people mention the Planeteers. And when he remembers Ma-Ti, he thinks of the good times, and not the last time.

One night, around eighteen months after Trish, he orders pizza.

Ten minutes later, there's a knock at his door.

And when he answers it, he drops the soda he's holding.

Because it's Linka.

Linka.

Here, at his door.

He stares at her for a moment, his mouth open.

'James Wheeler?' The gruff voice of a man interrupts the tumultuous turning of his mind, and for the first time, Wheeler notices two things. One, that Linka is in handcuffs. And two, that she's accompanied by two hard-faced police officers.

He tears his eyes away from her to look at them.

'Yeah,' he says, his voice thick. 'Yeah, that's me.'

'I think we should talk,' the officer tells him, and Wheeler stands aside, motioning them in.

Linka says nothing, her head down.

They sit in his living room, while the officers discuss Linka with him. She's still quiet, sitting with her head down, and Wheeler keeps stealing glances at her.

She's really there.

Linka. In his apartment.

He doesn't really take in what they tell him. Something about her passport. Something about a consulate. He signs a stack of papers for her anyway with shaking fingers, and before he knows it, she's uncuffed and he's showing the officers to the door, shaking their hands.

When he goes back into the living room, Linka is standing.

She looks at him with fearful green eyes.

'If I had anywhere else to go, James...' she begins, but he shakes his head.

'No,' he says, walking towards her. 'No, come here.'

He folds her into his arms, breathing deeply. She's stiff and uncertain against him, but he wraps his arms around her firmly.

'I never thought I'd see you again, Babe,' he tells her. 'God, it's good to know I was wrong.'

He hugs her tightly, and he feels her soften in his arms.

'James,' she whispers. 'I am sorry. I am feeling a little... um... overjoyed right now.'

He can hear the trepidation in her voice.

'Nah,' he whispers back. 'You mean overwhelmed, babe.'

'No,' she says, resting her weight against him, her fingers brushing against his shirt. It bothers him how slight and thin she feels. 'No. I meant what I said the first time.'

Something a little like joy runs through him. 'Babe,' he kisses the top of her head, holding her even closer. 'You're gonna be okay. I got you.'

It's Linka.

Here, and with him again.

'I got you,' he says again. 'I got you.'