The worst is over. I've seen him; I've been in the same room as him. I didn't spontaneously combust, I didn't break down, I didn't faint. All in all, very successful. I might be able to spend time in his presence without wanting to die, or to break and explain everything, which is all so irrelevant now that it doesn't even matter to anyone but me. I might be able to do that now.

But we can't ever be friends. That much is obvious; it would be stupid to ask for it or expect it. That almost never happens anyway. Lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, and listening to the distant voices downstairs, I'm captured by the strangeness of it all. Five years ago, we knew everything there was to know about each other. We could tell with a look how the other was feeling; we could talk without actually talking. Five years ago, no one was more important to me than he was. I knew him like I knew my own face. But now I didn't know him at all. I knew the body, and if I saw him smile, I'd remember that, too. But we're strangers now. I don't know this man and he doesn't know me. And it's worse than that, too, because we'll never be friends again. We'll stay strangers forever.

Hot damn, girl, you are melodramatic, my brain tells me. But it's three in the morning, I reason, and if there's ever a time a girl can be melodramatic about anything is when she sees her ex-boyfriend for the first time when she looks like shit and broke his heart five years ago and is operating on very little sleep.

Good excuse. Well structured. You should save that one.

Shut up.

"And you must be Anne. It's nice to finally meet you." Mrs Croft is ravishingly beautiful, a good half head taller than me, and smiling. Her hand shake is firm and her eyes sincere. I decide immediately that I like her. I decide almost as quickly that I really hope that she doesn't know anything about Ahmir and me.

But it seems like she doesn't know, because she goes right on talking to me, smiling her earnest smile, and making me feel at home in my own house.

Mr Croft can read my thoughts, apparently. "Is it too weird for you to be here? We tried to make it as different as possible so you don't feel like you're being usurped." They want me to like them, it's plain to see. I smile and shake my head, aware of everyone else arrayed around the den, now looking at me curiously.

"No, actually, it's not too bad. I like what you've done, I would never have thought of putting a couch there," I indicate where Mr and Mrs Musgrove are sitting; "it really opens up the room."

From there the conversation moves on to other things. Mary talks about her declining health, Lou and Hen chat Ahmir up about soccer and sports in general, Charles discusses the wonders of golf with Mr Croft. I sit back and look around at my old house, happily surprised by how comfortable I feel here.

They're not gaudy people, the Crofts. They like nice things, but nice in the simpler sense of the word. They don't need to show how wealthy they are by how much or what they own. It's clean, and homey, and infinitely more inviting now. I could totally forget I'm in my father's old home if I'm here for long enough. But I won't be. He lives here too, now.

I try not to look at him. I focus on the black and white photographs on the wall just behind the couch I'm sitting on. They're a little formulaic—big tree, huge flowers, sunny hills—but it's charming formula. They were taken by someone and given as gifts, not bought in a Hallmark store. I try to find new things to focus on, but I can feel his presence across the room, and I feel like he's looking at me.

Don't do it. Don't look back. Be strong. I try not to think of whose room he's sleeping in. Is it my old one, at the top of the stairs to the left? Or is it Mary's? Well, it has a better view, but it's too bright in the morning and it's right over the road; he wouldn't like that. Or it could be any one of the guest rooms, but they're stuffy and boring. So he might be in—

Stop. Thinking. About. It.

I turn back from the pictures to find him looking at me. His eyes are hooded, and his face is impassive. I could never tell what he was thinking when he looked like that. I want to give him stare for stare, but I don't. I could stare at him all day, but I won't.

You made a choice, Anne. Stick with it, won't you.

A choice. Okay. So. I'll just—

"So, Ahmir, how long do you plan on staying here?" Charles shoots the question across the room, seeing, perhaps, Lou's keen interest in the subject. Ahmir glances at him and smiles his charming, bright smile, all traces of his pensive mood gone. "Actually, Nadya invited me to stay with them for the whole off-season. She's been traveling a lot for work, and Adam and I have been gone for soccer most of the year. This way, we can spend a lot of time together," he smiles fondly at his sister, who returns it warmly. They're very close, and I find myself almost smiling, too.

Lou is beaming. "So you'll be here for a while, then?" She says, truly delighted. Hen looks just as glad, and I find myself hoping that he thinks they're too young for him, that he'll humor them, maybe flirt with them, but nothing more.

Okay, so this is not a good start, you. I pinch the base of my thumb, forcing myself back to the present.

"Yeah, at least a few months. Time to relax, spend time with my family—"

"Maybe find a girl—" puts in Mr Croft.

"Not that I'll have luck with that uggo pushing me," Ahmir continues, pulling a face at his brother-in-law, who makes a play of picking up a couch cushion and throwing it at him. I look away, bothered that it bothers me to hear him be so flippant.

"So you're single, then," says Mrs Musgrove, with a laughing look at Lou, who looks ready to jump out of her skin with glee.

"Single as they come," he returns blithely, another smile flashing across his lips. The women sit back in content as conversation turns to Mrs Croft's job, furniture dealers, optimal times of the day to drink massive amounts of coffee, and the like. I contribute to this more than I have before, hoping that the subject of Ahmir's love life won't come up again.

"So Ahmir, tell us about your ideal woman," says Mrs Musgrove teasingly. I'm sitting next to Mr Musgrove, and I can feel the inaudible groan he emits at this question. He is heinously uncomfortable at this moment, and I am no better myself, though my motives are more selfish.

Dinner is delicious, and I'm making myself eat more than I feel hungry for, because it will give me something to do besides look up and across the table and feel his eyes on me. Or not on me. I can't figure out which is worse at the moment.

"My ideal woman?" Ahmir laughs, his eyebrows raised incredulously at the question. There are a few chuckles around the table at his reaction, and he laughs softly down at his plate as his pushes a piece of broccoli around with his fork.

"Don't worry, Cap, I've got it," says Mrs Croft, spreading her hands dramatically and going perfectly still. "She'll have to be intelligent, and interesting, not overbearing, relaxed and relaxing, easy-going, fun-loving, and upbeat. Have I missed anything?" she leans forward teasing her younger brother, who wrinkles his nose again at her in response, smiling again.

"Actually, you missed a little," he says slyly, watching as Mrs Croft pulls a mock-horrified face, "the most important thing is that she makes her own decisions and stands by them. I want someone who's confident, and stubborn, and who doesn't cave easily to pressure. That's my ideal woman," he concludes, looking up from his plate again and flashing a smile around the table.

"Cap?" Hen asks, pulling Ahmir's attention to her, before Lou can say anything. Ahmir laughs again, and he and Mr Croft go to answer at the same time, then stop, and Ahmir motions for Mr Croft to keep going, smiling good-naturedly.

"His nickname. 'Cap,' like 'captain,' like 'team captain.' He didn't like it at first, but it stuck, and now he can't get rid of it." The two of them get into another bout of good-natured ribbing, which the whole company has come to enjoy by now.

And I want to die. He hates me. He hates me. I knew he would, I knew he wouldn't have forgiven me, but still, to have it said so blatantly—to have it obviously directed at me—hurts me more than I could have imagined. Mostly because it's true, because everything he's said and will say about me, however indirect, is true. I let him down, I cracked under pressure, I didn't stand by my decision. It's true.

I breathe slowly, bringing my water glass to my mouth to disguise my face, forcing my eyes to be dry, to not notice the prickling at the back of my eyeballs. This will not make me cry. Nothing will make me cry. At least I can have that.

"Nadya, are you on sabbatical, then?" asks Mr Musgrove, cutting through what I'm sure he thinks to be very silly conversations between Lou, Hen, and Ahmir. Nadya turns her luminous eyes to Mr Musgrove and hesitates for a second, then shakes her head. "Actually, I quit my job last month." The entire room quiets, looking at her with interest.

"Why?" Lou is almost more intrigued by this idea than by Ahmir's rippling muscles, and she leans across the table, eager for an explanation. Mrs Croft smiles slightly at Lou's enthusiasm, shifts uncomfortably in her seat, and says, "Well, I didn't really like it at all."

That seems inadequate for everyone present. She tries again. "I've had it since before I met Adam, and I kept it past when we were married. I didn't need to, necessarily, but I chose to because I wasn't going to let myself be one of those women who suddenly drops everything when she gets married. Adam had his job, and he was good at it, and I had mine. We both traveled, but it wasn't as bad as it's been recently, because I got a promotion two years back that made it so I took about twelve trips a year, and of course when the season's on, Adam and Cap are traveling all over the place, and I never got to see either of them. Long distance relationships aren't good in the long run, but it would have been one thing if I liked my job. I didn't like it, I just kept it to prove I could. But Adam loves his job, and there was no question of his giving it up, because I love it, too. So," she says, sighing a little and sitting back in her chair, "I quit my bad job so I could do what I really want to do, and it's been fabulous."

"What do you want to do?" I ask, interested in spite of myself.

"Write, actually," she says, casting her eyes down, as if embarrassed by our potential reactions. "One of my books is being published, and I'm working on another right now. And this way, when Adam goes off somewhere for soccer, I can go with him. No separation." The two of them smile at each other, and Mr Croft reaches over to squeeze her hand softly, his eyes gentle. It's a beautiful thing to see.