"Lauren."
"I know Lauren?"
"She lives in Colorado now."
"The Christmas card woman?"
"Yes."
"Anyone else?"
"Not really."
"That's brutal."
"It was."
"Did you meet me because all your old friends abandoned you?"
Amy smiled.
"Basically."
"Great foundation."
We talked until almost three in the morning.
At some point, the conversation stopped being about Peter entirely.
Amy told me how humiliated she had felt returning wedding gifts.
How she stopped going to certain restaurants because she might see mutual friends.
How she changed gyms after encountering Peter's cousin.
How she spent six months convinced she had ruined her chance at happiness.
Then she said something that stayed with me.
"The worst part wasn't people being angry."
"What was?"
"They were certain they knew why I left."
"What did they think?"
"That I was immature."
She looked down.
"And because I couldn't explain myself clearly, I started believing them."
I understood.
There are periods of life when other people's confidence becomes stronger than your own memory.
If enough people tell you who you are, eventually you start checking the mirror for evidence.
"Did Peter saying he understood help?"
"Yes."
"Do you feel guilty about that?"
"A little."
"Why?"
"Because I shouldn't need his permission."
"Maybe it wasn't permission."
"What was it?"
"Confirmation."
She looked at me.
"That you weren't imagining everything."
Amy nodded slowly.
"Maybe."
We went to bed around three fifteen.
She fell asleep quickly.
I didn't.
I stared at the ceiling.
Now that the emotional intensity of the confession was gone, other thoughts arrived.
The coffee meeting bothered me.
More than I had admitted.
I trusted Amy.
But trust and discomfort can exist at the same time.
I imagined Peter across from her.
I imagined them remembering a life that almost happened.
I wondered whether he had touched her hand.
Whether she had smiled differently.
Whether any part of her had looked at him and wondered.
What if?
That question tortured me.
At four eleven, Amy rolled over.
"You're awake."
"So are you."
"I felt you thinking."
"That's unsettling."
"What are you thinking?"
I hesitated.
Then remembered our promise.
Unfinished things.
"I wonder if you imagined being married to him."
Amy went still.
"At coffee?"
"Yes."
She was quiet long enough to hurt me.
Then she answered.
"Yes."
I turned toward her.
She continued immediately.
"For maybe five seconds."
My chest tightened.
"What did you imagine?"
"Not romance."
"What, then?"
"A different timeline."
"Where you married him."
"Yes."
"And?"
She looked at me in the darkness.
"I pictured his house."
"You know his house?"
"He showed me a picture of his kids."
"Okay."
"And for one moment, I thought, 'Those children could've been mine.'"
I did not like hearing that.
Amy knew.
"I'm sorry."
"No."
I swallowed.
"We're doing honesty."
She nodded.
"What else?"