Raoul's head shot up, and he looked at her, his mouth open a bit, as if in disbelief. Quickly, he stuffed his phone in his pocket and stepped over to her, catching her up in a crushing, sweeping hug. She choked a bit, feeling the urge to burst into tears. He smelled so good. He was so warm. His chest and arms were so strong.

Then he stepped away just as quickly. "Sorry," he said hastily. "Sorry. Just—heh. Good to see you. It's been a while."

"Yeah," she croaked stupidly. She cleared her throat. "Yeah. Let's—let's go inside."

To her embarrassment, she fumbled with the keys, unable to remember which one opened the door. She finally got it right and quickly pushed the door open, gesturing for Raoul to follow her.

The apartment was exactly as she remembered, everything right where she had left it, a few pairs of shoes next to the door, a half-read book on the table, an empty water glass next to the kitchen sink. It felt like a different lifetime. There was even a small pile of dirty laundry she had left near the bathroom on that night, as she had fully intended to return and take care of it after visiting Erik. It made her blush. Hopefully Raoul didn't notice.

But he was still staring at her, almost as if he was to look away, she would disappear. She stood there, looking back at him, feeling the same way.

"So," he said. "You're—you're alive, then?"

She laughed, shrill and short. She could feel that her cheeks were bright pink in embarrassment.

"Alive," she said. "Definitely. Uh, sorry to be so…mysterious. I'm glad you're here, though. Really."

The last bit made him give a dazzlingly-handsome smile. She resisted the urge to grab onto him. When was the last time someone had smiled at her so sincerely?

"Yeah, me too," he agreed. "So. You're gonna tell me why we've been playing secret agents for the past few weeks?"

"Uh," she said. She looked to the couch. "Yeah. Let's sit?"

They did so, and Christine couldn't help but glance at her watch. Fifteen minutes had passed already. Forty-five minutes remaining. In order to be back on time, she would have to leave in a mere thirty-five minutes. Only thirty-five precious minutes left.

"I can't stay long," she forced herself to say. "Just thirty minutes or so."

"Oh," he said, looking disappointed. "Okay."

"I'm sorry. I know. I just—well, let me explain." She tugged on a few curls, glancing around the apartment again, remembering all the hours they had spent here, laughing, cuddling…kissing. She took a deep breath, preparing to lay out the lie she had been concocting.

"So I'm in this…uh, it's kind of like a boot camp?" she said. "For performers. It's like an intense training. So I'm at the Opera House all the time. I guess that's why you never see me."

"Do you live there or something?"

She shook her head quickly. "Of course not!" she said. "I'm still here. Mostly just to sleep though." She prayed that he didn't see the thin layer of dust over the dining table or the cobwebs forming in the corners. "I mean, sometimes I just crash there. At the Opera House. They have some little rooms with bunks and stuff."

"Okay," he said slowly. "So like a retreat. I get that. But a retreat without phones?"

"It's supposed to help with focus," she said, not looking at him. "It's a pretty intense program. For only a few people. I mean, it's not forever. But just for now."

"So no phones. But letters are allowed? How does that help with focus?"

She let herself give a nervous laugh and then looked at him. "Actually, I'm not supposed to send letters at all. I could get in…big trouble if the directors found out. Which is why everything was so weird and secret. I'm sorry."

His frown was still there. She could tell he didn't really believe her.

"That seems pretty extreme," he said. "People just cut themselves off from the world for weeks at a time? For singing?"

"Oh, you know musicians are weird," she said, trying to sound playful, like it wasn't really a big deal. "Suffering for the art or whatever. It's hard, but it really has been helpful."

"Weirdos, yeah," he agreed, winking a little at her. "I remember you told me that singing teacher of yours was really weird. Does he still teach you?"

She panicked momentarily. "Nope," she lied. "I have a new teacher now." Luckily, he didn't dwell on that.

"How much longer is this retreat supposed to last?" he said. "It seems pretty long."

"Oh, it ends whenever I feel I've learned enough," she said, her voice a little tight, and she made a show of adjusting and fluffing the couch pillow in order to avoid his gaze. "So I'm not really sure. I feel like—like I still have a lot to learn."

"Hmm," he replied. "That would be too much for me. But…I guess if you're happy?"

"Yeah," she said, resisting the urge to take another glance at her watch, because that would mean more minutes had passed. "Happy. Healthy. Uh, you?"

"Yep," he replied, shrugging. "Happy, I guess. Healthy. Just working a lot. Staying busy. I'm going to Paris with my brother for the holidays. That should be nice."

"Oh, that does sound nice," she said. She picked at a stray thread in the cushion, disappointed that the conversation was more awkward than she had expected. Then they both tried to say something at the same time, stopped, tried again, and stopped.

Raoul laughed. "You first."

She smiled. "I was going to ask how you got that letter to me in the first place."

"Kind of easy, honestly," he said. "I waited outside and asked a few people going inside if they knew you. Someone said yes, and I gave her fifty bucks to get the note to you."

Christine wondered who it was but then decided it really didn't matter. "Smart," she said. "Okay, you go."

"I wanted to know more about that guy," Raoul said. "There was this guy who kept contacting me this summer. He kept saying stuff like if I cared about you, I had to be ready to help, that you were in trouble. He said someone was hurting you. And one night, he called me out of the blue and said I had to be at this address at this time, or else I would never see you again."

Christine felt her stomach clench. She tried not to let her expression change, hoping she looked mildly confused instead of anxious and horrified.

"I tried to ask him what the hell was going on, who he really was," Raoul continued. "He told me his name was Khan—like…from Star Trek? Oh my god, now I feel kind of stupid." He smiled ruefully, his neck turning red. "I mean, do you know what I'm talking about? You know a guy named Khan?"

"No," she said. Poor Nadir. "No idea."

"I mean, he sounded so sincere," Raoul continued. "Normal, even. I started to believe him, I really thought you were in trouble. So that night, I went to that address…nothing. And when I tried to call him and ask what was going on, no answer. Never heard from him again. Wow, I guess I'm lucky nothing bad happened. Maybe he was setting me up?"

"Yeah," she said vaguely. "Weird."

"Very," he said. "Must be some psycho fan of yours. I've heard some fans can get like that. They do weird things. Just…strange."

"Mmm." She wanted to change the subject, so she let her gaze wander around the room for inspiration. The photo album she and Raoul had once looked at was on the bookshelf, forlorn and also dusty. "Your parents came to visit?" she said, looking back at him. He grimaced a little.

"Unfortunately," he said. "Torture, every minute. I had to listen to my dad tell me about some ugly fat fish he caught off the Gulf of Mexico about twenty times. Pictures and everything."

She laughed, and he joined her, carefree, genuine laughter. Unthinking, she reached over and pressed her hand on his forearm. They looked at each other. His eyes were so blue. His hair was longer than she remembered. The skin underneath her palm was warm, smooth. She leaned in, her gaze falling to his lips.

To her complete humiliation, he pulled away quickly.

"Whoa," he said, holding a hand up between them.

"Oh my god," she said. Her face was on fire. "Oh no. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That was…I'm so sorry."

"No, it's fine," he said, reaching over to squeeze her hand reassuringly. "It's just…er, confusing. We broke up, remember?"

"Yes. Yeah, I do." She was mortified. She wanted the couch to swallow her. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking." She didn't know what she was thinking. There was a ring on her finger. Erik was waiting for her. He would kill her if he found out. Maybe literally.

"Hey, it's fine, stop apologizing." He then rubbed her thigh. "It's not like I don't want to. I just…I don't really know what all this means for us."

"I was being stupid," she said, standing. "I—I should go. I have to be back soon for another practice session." She made a show of bustling around, straightening books she had left haphazard, kicking the dirty laundry into the musty, filthy bathroom, mindlessly grabbing a few knicknacks to bring back with her.

"Christine, it's fine," Raoul said, standing and following her. "I shouldn't have reacted like that."

"No, I'm being stupid," she said, nearly in tears, realizing how messed up the whole situation was. And she had orchestrated it all. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have asked you to—"

She felt him put his hands on her shoulders, and he turned her to him. He didn't yank, grab, squeeze, force. He was gentle. He gave her the opportunity to resist. But she didn't. She let him turn her around, and she let him lean down and kiss her.

It was like the most beautiful ray of summer sun, the most refreshingly crisp winter wind. She had not been kissed in so long, and for a moment, she didn't respond, as if she had forgotten how. But then her arms wrapped around his neck, and she pressed into him, dizzy, overwhelmed. His lips were so soft, supple. She could feel some scratchy stubble on his chin. Her knees buckled a bit. His warm tongue ran against her bottom lip. She couldn't help the little whimper that escaped her.

They kissed for several more moments, heat shooting through her while cold dread also began to pool in her stomach. This was literally the worst thing in the world she could be doing. But she couldn't stop. She felt so touch-starved, so ravenous for affection and sincere warmth of any kind, and she did care for Raoul. He tasted so nice. His hands fit perfectly on her back.

Finally, he pulled away, and she was disappointed and relieved. He looked at her closely.

"You okay?" he said, gently taking her head in his hands and tilting her face up. "Is it okay that I did that?"

"Yeah," she whispered, her voice cracking a bit. "I…I should go."

His brows furrowed a bit. "You just got here."

"I have a lesson," she said, stepping away from him and picking up the bag that had fallen to the floor. "I can't be late. I'll get in trouble."

"Uh, sure," he said, looking a little confused. "So…am I ever going to see you again?"

She laughed, though it again sounded unnatural. "I'm not going to disappear or anything. You can see me on the stage!"

"You know what I mean."

Christine didn't let herself look at him, or else she would capitulate. Instead she fumbled with the keys, making a show of untangling them.

"It's probably not a good idea," she said.

"Why not?" he said. "What was all this about then? Sneaking off to see me?"

"I just didn't want you to be worried about me," she said, finally looking at him. His brow was furrowed, his mouth turned into an unhappy frown.

"Okay, sure. But kissing me?"

"That's—I shouldn't have. I'm really sorry. I got confused." She clutched the keys in her hand, the metal digging into her palm. Panic was threatening to overwhelm her. She was so, so stupid.

"But you could have explained all this in a letter," he pressed. "Why did you insist I meet you here at all?"

"Raoul," she said, feeling close to tears. "I'm—you're right, this was stupid of me."

He stood there, looking at her, almost disbelieving. "So this is goodbye forever?"

Yes, she told herself to say. Yes, goodbye forever! Never contact me again. For your own sake. But she was weak. She heard herself say, "I don't know. I just—I really have to go. I'm sorry."

"Christine, wait."

But she had opened the door and stepped out. "Goodbye." Then she shut the door, afraid that if she spent another minute with him, she would tell him everything.

She took the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator and be forced to share an awkward ride down with Raoul. For several minutes, she sat in the cool, silent stairwell, her head buried in her arms, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, and she berated herself over and over again for what had just happened.

When she finally collected herself enough and finished walking down the endless stairs, she checked her watch. There were only eight minutes remaining. Her heart seized in her chest. If she was late, Erik would lock her up. She burst out the door and ran down the sidewalk, the bulky bag jostling against her hip awkwardly.

The sun was low on the horizon. The days were getting shorter. Christine noticed yellow leaves in the gutters. The air was starting to turn cool. Fall, clear nights, beautiful foliage. Nothing she would be able to appreciate.

She was horribly out of shape. A stitch formed in her side, but she continued to jog, resisting the urge to look at her watch every few seconds, knowing it wouldn't do anything but make her panic.

Why was she so unbelievably stupid? What had she expected to happen with Raoul? A short, cordial conversation and then a mutual parting of ways? No…she hadn't wanted that at all. She felt disgusted with herself. She had wanted him to touch her, kiss her. She was horrible.

The Opera House was getting closer. She turned down a block, seeing the corner building that marked the entrance of the alleyway. She couldn't help but glance at her watch. Two minutes. Chest heaving, feeling pathetic and weak, she stumbled along, ignoring the curious stares of the people around her.

In the alleyway, she slowed down just a bit, trying to control her breathing. She didn't want Erik to comment on her panicked run. He would inevitably ask why she had left so late, why hadn't she paid attention to the time, what was so interesting in that apartment…

Hands shaking, she pulled out the keys, grabbing the familiar one to the doorway. She looked at her watch again. Right on time.

When she opened the door and walked in, she was both surprised and not at all surprised to see Erik there, waiting. She hesitated by the door, not wanting to close out the sunlight.

"I'm back," she announced unnecessarily.

"Only just," he said. "You were almost late."

"But I wasn't," she said, sucking in a deep, silent breath. "I'm here on time."

"Barely," he said. "And you ran to get here."

She adjusted the bag, trying to get her heart to stop racing. "Did you just stand there the whole time I was gone?"

"No," he snapped. "I have better things to do with my time."

She knew he was lying. But she said nothing, instead closing the door and handing over the keys. "Thank you for letting me go, Erik," she said, hoping he thought the tremble in her voice was because she was out of breath.

"Yes, well. You have your things?"

She touched her bag, no idea what was in it. "Yes. Thank you."

He led her back down. She tried to bring herself to hold his hand again, but she felt so ashamed, and so she merely grabbed his cuff. That probably hurt him.

Once back in the house, she went to the bedroom, needing a few moments alone to calm down and collect herself from what had just happened, what she had done. She sat on the bed, staring at the door blankly, elated and horrified at the same time.

"Oh, god," she then groaned, pressing her face in her palms. Erik—Erik. If he ever found out, it would be the end. After a moment, she brought her hands together, squeezing her eyes shut.

"I know it was bad," she whispered, her voice as quiet as she could make it. "I know. It was wrong. But please, please, please don't let Erik ever find out. Please."

She wondered if her father was disappointed in her. The thought was painful.

To try to distract herself, she opened her bag, looking at the items she had brought for the first time. There was a small brass candlestick holder, a postcard picture of the Paris Opera House, a book of short stories that she had never read, and three pencils, one of them now broken. She had brought back trash. Maybe she should have made an actual effort to find and bring back meaningful items. If Erik ever asked, how was she going to explain that a broken pencil somehow meant the world to her?

She shook her head, stuffing everything back into her bag and kicking it under the bed. It could never happen again. It was too dangerous. For her, for Raoul…It would break Erik's heart if he ever found out—after he was finished murdering Raoul.

To try to make up for the guilt eating away at her, she asked Erik to play backgammon with her after dinner. She tried to be cheerful, to make him happy. If he was suspicious about her sudden enthusiasm for the game, he said nothing, instead beating her soundly several games in a row.

"You are not thinking ahead," he said once, hitting two of her pieces and setting them in the middle of the board. "You have to consider what moves I might make in response instead of just what might be most advantageous for you at the moment."

"How can I do that when I don't know what number you'll roll with the dice?" she said, frowning.

"If you set yourself up well enough, it won't matter."

She wondered if he was disappointed in her apparent lack of skill at the game, but she tried not to become frustrated and instead be gracious with her losses, hoping to keep the mood light. When she wished him a goodnight sometime later, she was relieved to hear warmth in the tone of his response.

She lay in the bed, looking up into the dark ceiling, wondering if she was a bad person. She had never thought of herself as a bad person—she tried her best to be good. But now she wasn't sure, and she reasoned with herself.

Erik has done a lot of bad things to you. So it's okay if you have this one secret. Besides, it's not like the marriage was legal or anything. It's not actually cheating.

With a sigh, she rolled over, squeezing her eyes shut, wanting to fall asleep quickly and stop agonizing over her actions. Nobody had to know. It had happened, and she was stupid, but it wouldn't happen again.

She made herself promise that—it wouldn't happen again.