This was the man who’d sent her that book package last week, a book that—while she hadn’t read it yet—she had placed on her bedside table, where only precious things like Miko’s framed picture resided.

“Hi, name, please?” Henry held a clipboard and hadn’t glanced up to look at her.

“Um, excuse me?”

The tip of his pen was poised on the list of names on the clipboard. “Last name of either party.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t… actually have an appointment.” Regina’s tongue tied at the tip. She gazed at the top of his head. Surely, any second now, he was going to look up.

Except, he didn’t. “Ah, I apologize, but all of our tastings are by appointment only. I hope you understand. I think that… hm… that we might have availability tomorrow.” He looked through the papers on his clipboard.

All around her, people focused in on their conversation. Regina’s face burned with the beginning of embarrassment.

“I’m actually here because…” She cleared her throat. “Hello, Henry.”

Henry stilled. Then, slowly, he looked up. Up close now, she took him in. Her mind cataloged the differences between Instagram Henry and For Real Henry. His eyes were a much clearer hazel in person, but the smile, the generous smile that appeared on his face, was definitely spot-on.

“Regina?”

“Hi. It’s me.”

Months. Months, they had been corresponding, almost every day, and this was all she could say? He was her pen pal. She had been looking forward to this. But instead of joy, what she felt seeing him this first time was relief. Relief that there was someone here in Old Town to turn to in the middle of her dysfunctional friendship-triangle with Adelaide and Sophie.

“Hey! Are… are you okay?” His expression changed from excitement to worry. He stepped into her, tentative, as she felt her face crumble.

She shook her head as a decade’s worth of memories and drama rushed toward her.

“Can I… Is this?” he asked, arms out, an awkward gesture.

He was asking her if she needed a hug. And in fact, she did.

She stepped into his body, crowd be damned.

CHAPTER FIVE

Regina

July 2011—About Ten Years Ago

“No, no, no. This is not okay.”

Regina paused at the door of apartment E of 2100 Bell Street at the sound of her husband’s muffled voice. With a letter in her hand, she took a deep breath and turned the doorknob, popping it open with a crack. She peeked inside.

The hard bass guitar of rock music blared from the living room on the right, and the exhaust fan whirred from behind the wall on her left. And in the middle of the hallway was her cat, Shadow, nestled next to Logan’s boots, atop his discarded socks and uniform top. Shadow eyed her, in warning.

“He’s cooking again, isn’t he?” Regina asked Shadow.

The cat meowed.

Regina entered and bent down and rubbed the back of Shadow’s ear, then stepped over the pile of dirty clothes.

“Hey! Hey, I thought I heard you come in.” Logan stuck his head out from their galley kitchen and yelled above the exhaust. Behind him was a plume of smoke.

For a beat, Regina lost her train of thought. Her nose tickled at the scent of burnt cheese, a sure sign that Logan had somehow fried the boxed mac and cheese he had insisted on buying in bulk from the commissary. It was supposedly one of the only things he knew how to cook. Supposedly.

“Babe?” he said, with an expectant look and a frozen smile. A smile that said that he was trying. They were on the heels of a fight from the night before, this time about him taking the reins as a true partner in their home—since her role seemed to have evolved to a full-blown housekeeper and cook. The fight had ended with him doing exactly what he did each time they disagreed: leaving.

Regina wasn’t sure how to respond. Or which version of Logan this one was. So she shook a smile onto her face and pretended that she couldn’t hear the sizzle in the background. She lifted the letter in her hand. “I got invited to book club.”

The man cackled, ducking back into the kitchen.

“What’s so funny about that?” She unlaced her combat boots and propped them next to the front door and, in stocking feet, unbuttoned and hung her camouflaged shirt in the hallway closet. Their apartment was tiny, not quite what she had envisioned for their first home together, and had almost zero storage space. Their uniform tops were relegated to the hallway closet, where they’d become accustomed to dressing and undressing.

“You don’t like to read,” he said.

She gasped and went to their bedroom. “I take offense. Yes, I do.” She changed into her college sweatshirt and leggings, then stood at the kitchen’s entryway. She slung her arms across her chest to watch this man—her husband—attempt to cook. He was still in his brown T-shirt and camo pants and barefoot, and she couldn’t help but just look. Logan Hardin was handsome. Shy of six feet, he had these captivating light brown eyes and was built like a tank, muscle everywhere. They had married right after his graduation from West Point and hers from Villanova; after a short two months of Officer Basic Course, they’d transferred to Upstate New York’s Army post, Fort Fairfax, and there they were, almost two years married. Though, sometimes, like the night before, when their conversations ignited into a forest fire, it felt like they were still strangers.