It was just a brochure. It didn’t mean anything.

She opened the refrigerator and surveyed old friends on the shelves: sriracha and Hellmann’s mayonnaise and Yoo-hoo. But among these familiar condiments lurked an alien invader: Chobani yogurt, low fat. This should not be here. In all the years she’d known Liam, she’d never seen him eat yogurt. He despised it. The sight of this anomaly was so unnerving it made her wonder if she’d accidentally walked into the wrong apartment and opened the wrong refrigerator. If she’d wandered into a parallel universe where an imposter Liam resided, a Liam who ate yogurt and was planning to move to California.

Unsettled, she went into the bedroom, where, on weekend nights, their cast-off clothes used to lie tangled like lovers on the floor, his shirt flung across her blouse. Here, too, something was not right. His bed was made, the sheets neatly tucked in and squared off in hospital corners, the proper way one made a bed. When had he learned to make hospital corners? When had he ever made his own bed? She always used to do it for him.

She opened his closet and surveyed the shirts lined up on hangers, some of them still draped in plastic from the laundry service. She plucked up a sleeve and pressed her face to the crisp cotton, remembering all the times she used to rest her head against his shoulder. But these freshly laundered shirts smelled only of soap and starch. Anonymous smells.

She closed the closet door and went into the bathroom.

In the toothbrush holder, where hers also used to perch, his toothbrush now stood alone and forlorn, missing its mate. She lifted the lid to the laundry hamper, dug through the dirty clothes, and pulled out a T-shirt. She buried her face in it, and the scent intoxicated her. He had so many other T-shirts; he would never miss this one. She stuffed it into her backpack to keep as her secret Liam fix, something to tide her over while they played out this farce of “taking a break from each other.” Surely their separation wouldn’t last much longer. They’d been together so long that they’d grown into a single organism, their flesh melded, their lives forever bound. He just needed time to realize how much he missed her.

She stepped out into the hallway and quietly pulled the door shut. Except for stealing his T-shirt, she’d left everything in his apartment exactly as she’d found it. He wouldn’t know she’d been here; he never did.

Outside an icy wind swept between the buildings, and she pulled up the hood of her jacket, wound her scarf more tightly. She’d lingered here for far too long; if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for class. But she couldn’t help pausing on the sidewalk to take one last look at his apartment.

That was when she noticed the face gazing down at her from the window. It was one of the blondes in 2C. Why wasn’t she already on campus, where she was supposed to be? While Taryn had been rummaging through Liam’s apartment, this woman was still at home. They stared at each other, and Taryn wondered if the other woman had heard her moving about in the rooms next door. Would she tell Liam about the visit?

Taryn’s heart was thudding as she walked away. Maybe the blonde hadn’t heard her. Even if she had, she’d have no reason to mention it to Liam. Taryn used to spend every weekend here with him and had been in the building dozens of times before.

No, there was no reason to panic. No reason to think he’d ever know.

She picked up her pace. If she hurried, she could still make it to class on time.

CHAPTER 3

JACK

Her name was Taryn Moore, and she slunk into Professor Jack Dorian’s life on the first day of the semester, entering the seminar room dressed in a silver bomber jacket and shiny black tights that lacquered the bottom half of her body. They were already ten minutes into the class, and she murmured an apology as she squeezed her way past the other students crammed into the small room and took the last open seat at the conference table. Jack could not help registering how alluring she was as she slid into her chair, her figure as lithe as a dancer’s, her windblown dark hair with reddish highlights. She settled beside a chubby guy in a Red Sox cap, set her notebook on the table, and fixed Jack with a look so direct that for a fleeting moment he nearly forgot what he’d been saying.

There were fifteen in the class, all that could comfortably fit into the English Department’s cramped seminar room. The group was small enough for Jack to soon commit their names to memory.

“And you are?” he asked, glancing down at the list of students enrolled in his Star-Crossed Lovers seminar. It was an admittedly gimmicky name for the course he’d created, exploring the theme of doomed love in literature from antiquity to the present day. What better way to entice jaded college seniors to read The Aeneid, The Romance of Tristan and Iseult, Medea, or Romeo and Juliet than to wrap it all up in a sexy package of love, lust, and ultimate tragedy? What unlucky circumstances led to the lovers’ deaths? What religious, political, and societal forces doomed their romances?

“Taryn Moore,” she said.

“Welcome, Taryn,” he said, adding a check mark to the name. He found where he’d left off in his notes and continued the lecture, but he was still distracted by the woman at the end of the table. Maybe that was why he avoided looking at her. Even then, on that very first day, some instinct must have warned him to be careful.

Four weeks into the semester, his instincts proved right.

They were discussing the twelfth-century letters of Abelard and Heloise. Abelard was older, a famous philosopher and theologian at Notre Dame. Heloise was his intellectually gifted student. Despite a host of social and religious taboos forbidding their romance, Abelard and Heloise became lovers. Pregnant with Abelard’s child, Heloise retreated in scandal to a convent. Her uncle exacted a brutal punishment on her lover: he hired henchmen to castrate the unlucky Abelard, who was later exiled to a monastery. Although forever separated, the lovers kept their romance alive through the letters they wrote to each other, documenting the heartbreak of two star-crossed lovers who were doomed to never again touch.

“Their letters reveal fascinating details about monastic life in the Middle Ages,” Jack said to the class. “But it’s their tragic love story that makes these letters so poignant and timeless. Tragedy defined them, and their suffering in the name of love rendered them heroic. But do you see their sacrifices as equal? Which of the lovers stands out as more heroic?”

Beth, her expression serious as always, raised her hand. “I thought what made Heloise especially impressive, given the norms for women back then, was her continuing defiance.” She looked down at her text. “She writes from the convent that as others are ‘wedded to God, I am wedded to a man’ and ‘I am the slave to Abelard alone.’ This was a strong-minded woman who defied the taboos of the time. I’d say she’s the real hero.”

He nodded. “And she never gave up on her love for him.”

“She says she’d even follow Abelard into the flames of hell. That’s true devotion.”

Jason piped up: “I can’t even get my girlfriend to follow me to a Bruins game.”

The class burst out laughing. Jack was happy to see everyone engaged in lively discussion, unlike those dispiriting days when he had to do all the talking and his students merely stared at him with bored and glassy eyes, like carp in a pond.

Jason continued. “I also liked how Heloise writes about having sexual fantasies while she’s in Mass. Man, I can identify with that! Divine litany in Greek churches runs a whole two hours. That’s long enough for me to get it on with a dozen girls. In my head, anyway.”

More laughter. That was when Taryn caught Jack’s eye. She’d been scribbling copious notes, and now she raised her hand.

“Yes, Taryn?” he said.

“I have an issue with this story. And the others you’ve assigned as well,” she said.

“Oh?”

“There seems to be a theme going on here with the stories you’ve introduced so far. And it’s that the men invariably betray the women they claim to love. Heloise gives up everything for love. Yet most scholars celebrate Abelard as the true hero.”

He heard passion behind her words, and he nodded for her to continue.