I buy Time, Newsweek, and The Wall St. Journal at the newsstand. Not that I expect to have time to read all three. And not that I think I can concentrate on reading anything. Even The National Enquirer would be beyond me at the moment. But it's something to pass the time. And better that I sit pretending to read, than stare into space as I wonder how I ended up in this train station, about to make what may well be the biggest leap in my life.

It started over twenty years ago, but the more recent inception was when Tony was driving us back from the airport. We'd seen Jonathan off, and I wasn't the only one who had cried. My little boy isn't as little as he was even a year ago, but he's still little enough to cry at leaving his mom for a month, and Tony admitted on the way to the car that he "got a little misty" himself.

Jonathan and I have never been apart for more than a few days, but I'd promised Michael one summer a month. I was extremely relieved back in November when Michael gave up the crazy idea of splitting Jonathan's life in two, six months in Connecticut, six months in California and wherever Michael and, ugh, Heather drag him off to.

"Like he's some filial version of Persephone," I'd muttered to Tony, not expecting him to get the reference.

But Tony had joked back, "Does that make California Hell?"
He was just as upset about the possibility of losing our little boy as I was. And Jonathan is ours. Tony and I didn't say it out loud, but he's been more of a real father to Jonathan than Michael ever was. Jonathan told me later how Tony tried to reassure him before the wedding, how he told him that everyone gets scared, even Tony. But Jonathan also said, with an eight-year-old's way of not being judgmental, Michael said Bowers don't get scared and he didn't want Jonathan to ruin his big moment.

Well, I may be only a Bower by marriage, but I know they get scared. I'm scared right now, although not to the point of nausea. OK, find a bench and pretend to read.

We'd crossed the state line back into Connecticut when Tony suddenly said, "So I've been thinking about the anniversary."

My heart skipped a beat and I thought Oh my God, we're going to talk about what he meant when he said he loved me! And in a way, I was relieved and excited, but I was also scared. Because I don't know if I love Tony in the way that I'd thought he might love me. We didn't talk about it in the hospital, because he decided to sweep it under the carpet, pretend he just said, "Ouch." And I went along with it because of my fear, and because of my concern, since he was recovering from major surgery.

And then we didn't talk about it after he went home from the hospital, and life went on mostly as it had, but it was hardly the first time for that, although the circumstances had changed.

"The anniversary?" I said cautiously.

"Yeah, it's coming up. And, uh, do you think Anthony and Ingrid should observe it?"

Believe me, I was not expecting that. Even a turnpike confession of love would've thrown me less. For a year, well, almost a year considering it wasn't quite the anniversary, we did our best to act as if we had not fooled around in a creepy motel with a collapsed ceiling. That's not to say that we went back to exactly where we left off before we found out we'd shared our first kiss. It brought us closer, even if we pretended it wasn't exactly us but grown-up versions of the two star-crossed kids.

It was my idea. Look, we were sharing a small bed and a pair of pajamas. And it'd been a night filled with sexual tension. I'd confessed to my name change, he'd confessed to his lies and deception. And we'd also confessed how much that kiss meant to us, even two decades later. But Tony didn't want to change things between us, and I had mixed feelings.

So, after some let's-see-how-this-compares-to-the-first-one kisses (even better as adults, especially sober adults), I suggested we "be" Anthony and Ingrid, separate them from us. As I said, I don't think we entirely succeeded, even that night. In the end, I couldn't cross the final line, let him be inside me. And he seemed pretty overwhelmed by my "Ingrid side," the sort of passion that I'd only expressed with Michael. (I came close with Brian, but we didn't consummate our very brief marriage. And Tony doesn't know about Brian. No one does. Brian Thomas is an even bigger secret than Anthony.)

Foreplay with Tony was much better than with Grant. With Grant, it was a step in a process. With Tony, whether or not it led to anything else, it was lovely in of itself. Lovely and, blush, hot. The morning after our drunken kiss (what we thought at the time was our first kiss), he'd said if we ever "lost each other as friends," he'd want me to remember it and, oh, I still get toasty when I think of it, the way he said, "And you would." And I replied, rather Ingridly, "So would you."

And I have no doubt that if we "went all the way" that it would be incredibly memorable. But instead we had a night to remember that doesn't quite exist. When people—Mother, Wendy, Diane Wilmington, even Jonathan!—ask why I don't have sex with Tony, how am I supposed to answer? Not that it's any of their business (well, maybe Mother's), but I don't even know how to answer that for myself. We sort of have had sex but then we haven't.

And when Tony was running for PTA President, Joanne Parker's accusations were false about me and Tony, but not about Ingrid and Anthony. So when she asked (at a PTA meeting!) if he'd slept with me and/or seen me naked, he told of how he'd done both accidentally. He didn't say a word about what Ingrid deliberately requested of him and he happily granted.

So I wasn't sure how to reply to Tony on the way back from the airport. A cautious "Well, do you think they'd want to? To observe it?" was all I could manage at first.

"Yeah, I think Ingrid would. She's a wild woman," he teased.

"Anthony wasn't exactly running out of the room last anniversary," I teased back.

"No, he wasn't," he said quietly.

"But I can't imagine them going back to that awful motel." It was one thing to go there out of desperation. If we were going to plan this, then we could change details.

"Nah, I was thinkin', they could just go to that general area, near their summer camps. Like rent a little rustic cabin."

"Not too rustic. No outhouses."

"OK, a rustic cabin with a bathroom en suite."

"That would be nice."

"Someplace away from it all, but not roughing it too much."

"Right."

"Of course, they do like the outdoors. Maybe they should pitch a tent, sleep under the stars."

"Anthony was pitching quite a tent last time." I gasped. I couldn't believe I said that out loud to Tony.

He seemed startled a moment, and then in the same tone of voice as for "And you would," he said, "Well, Ingrid was so nice to help him straighten the pole."
I almost backed off but something made me keep going. "Maybe this time they could put it on firmer but deeper ground."

Tony glanced at me and for a moment I thought he was going to pull over to the side of the road and have his way with me. But he put his eyes back on the road and said quietly, "They'll rent a cabin. More romantic."

"OK."

After that, it was a matter of my planning a "business trip" and Tony taking me to the Fairfield train station. But then I headed north to the station nearest our old camps. Meanwhile, Tony would return to the house and tell Mother that he's going to Brooklyn for a couple days, to look up an old girlfriend or two. She could watch Sam, who's spending most of the summer in her friends' backyards anyway, at pool parties and BBQs. Knowing Mother, she'll go to the pool parties and BBQs and be everyone's favorite guest.

Tony promised to meet up with me here as soon as he can, without exceeding the speed limit too much. Obviously, this gives me time to think, to have second thoughts. But as scared as I am, I think I'll go through with it. It's better than always wondering.

I'm not scared of the sex exactly. This isn't my second wedding night, with Michael a little impatient about my virginity. Not that he was rough or brutal, but, well, Michael is self-absorbed. He came, I didn't, but I cleaned up the mess. ("Angela, leave it for the maid in the morning. It's what they're paid for.")

Tony, I know, would've been gentle but coaxing and then passionate when I was ready for it. I'm sure that's how he was his first time with Marie. (Which probably wasn't his first time, if I know Tony, and I think I do.) Even if our first time together will hardly be our first time of all (unlike the kiss at the Rock), I don't think he'll just jump me. I mean, the man knows his foreplay! Plus he's so thoughtful and sensitive. (Well, most of the time.) The passion will be playful and, well, loving with a small L.

What I'm scared of is what the sex would mean. I do believe it could change our relationship for the better, but what if it doesn't? And what does it mean if Anthony and Ingrid have sex but Tony and Angela are just close friends who flirt?

Part of me wants to back out, and part of me wants to see what happens. And, oh God, part of me wants to hear Tony say he loves me, although I doubt that Anthony would say that to Ingrid. Anthony and Ingrid hardly know each other!

I know how crazy this sounds, believe me. It's tempting to catch the return train to Fairfield and pretend the business trip got cancelled. But that wouldn't be fair to Tony, who's on his way here. And it's not like he has a car phone in that rusty old van, and it's not the kind of call I want to make from a pay phone.

I'll see how I feel when he gets here. Maybe he's having doubts, too, and we'll just try to forget the whole thing. Like I said, we have practice at that.

Then I see him in the doorway, politely pushing past people, looking for me. And then he sees me and he grins. Tony has the most amazing smile. It's almost impossible to not smile back, which has been a problem the times I've been mad at him. I know he has this effect on other people, and not just women. There's something so generous about Tony's smile, like he wants you to be as happy as he is, and that will make him even happier.

I grin back. I throw the magazines in my overnight bag and stand up. He runs towards me and I run to him, my bag banging against my hip, and we throw our arms around each other like we haven't seen each other in a year.

"Ingrid Baby, I've missed you!"

"Anthony, Anthony!"

I love train stations. No one bats an eye. Not even when we share a lovers' reunion kiss.

We break apart and look into each other's eyes, reading lust and amusement. We're playing but it's also real.

"Uh, let me take your bag."

"Thank you."

He puts it in one hand but holds my hand with his other. We make our way out of the station and to the van.

"So, Ing, ready for our rustic cabin?"

"Yes, Anthony." Oh, am I ready! All of my doubts have melted away. Not to say they might not return when we're in bed together, but for now, this feels so right.

"Me, too," he says, letting go of my hand and tossing my bag into the back of the van. Then he escorts me to the front, opening my door, helping me in. Anthony does have his gentlemanly side.

We don't talk at first and then I have to ask, "So how did Angela's mother react to Tony's weekend plans?"

He blushes a little. "Um, she said." He coughs. "You really wanna know?"

Does Mother suspect something? "What did she say?" I demand.

"Well, she said, 'Good idea. You need to de-Connecticut-ize a bit. Maybe get laid for a change.' "

I blush, at Mother's crudity and at the idea that Tony hasn't been, um, getting that. I don't know if he has. I don't think so. The first year we lived together, well, not lived together, but shared a house, his head was turned by any flirty, pretty woman. But I know for a fact that since his reunion with Ingrid, he's turned down at least four very attractive women—Cassandra the Crazy Cat Lady, Gina the Perfect Old-Fashioned Italian Potential Wife, Diane Wilmington, and Genevieve Pescher—although he came very close with Mademoiselle Pescher. That's not to say he's been with no one, but he's more selective now I think.

"I didn't tell Mona that Brooklyn isn't where I'm going for that."
I blush more.

"Not that we have to—I mean, we'll just see how it goes, right?"

"Right. Anthony and Ingrid will at least kiss."

"They will always at least kiss."

We smile at each other and then he tries to focus on his driving some more.

It's only about fifteen minutes to the cabin. I booked it, paid for it. Tony resisted that at first, but I said that we know Ingrid was a rich girl and Anthony was a poor boy. He'd have to find nonmonetary ways to repay her. Tony grinned at that.

"Down this road, right?" he asks.

"I think so. I thought you don't trust my sense of direction."

"Well, just when it comes to finding Make-Out Rock."

"I found it twenty years ago!" I say indignantly. Then I remember, I couldn't find the Rock when I tried to go back the night after our kiss. It was crazy, I know, but I was a starry-eyed thirteen-year-old who thought she'd found a summer romance. Anthony and I hadn't made any promises to return but I thought he'd feel the way I did and he'd go back. I guess he did, although I didn't realize it till I found out about Tony carving Ingrid's name on the Rock. At the time, I figured he hadn't returned, because he never sent me a message saying "Where were you? I waited an hour!", or anything like that.

What would've happened if I'd found the Rock, found Anthony again? Would our lives have gone differently? Or would it never have been more than a summer romance? After all, he was only, oh dear, eleven. Hardly the age to make a lifetime commitment, or even to go steady.

I read Tony the directions I got from the travel agent. We find the campsite and check in, as "Anthony Micelli and Ingrid Weinberger." That's Tony's whimsical touch, in honor of his friend Bruce, who timed us. I was hurt and annoyed a year ago, but now I can see the humor in it. And obviously this, whatever it is, has lasted more than fifty-seven seconds.