But just admit it, Delilah!

No, it was more than that. To sleep with Greg MacAvoy would be a disaster. She had slept with his type before—nascent rock stars, athletes just off the winning field. They looked at Delilah like she was a juicy cheeseburger, they devoured her… and then they wiped their mouths with a napkin and walked away.

She wanted Greg to love her, to value her—someday—more than he valued Tess.

They hung out nearly every night after closing. Greg drank copiously and played a private concert for Delilah, Thom and Faith, Graham the bartender, and whoever else happened to be lingering. He and Delilah talked, he told her everything—or if not everything, then most things, things he did not tell Tess. It happened organically. They started talking about their kids. Barney had been only eight months old when Delilah went to work, the twins were a year and a half, Drew was two. Talking about the kids, after a few drinks, morphed into talking about their spouses. How long had it been before both of them realized there was no forbidden territory? Delilah complained: Jeffrey acts like my father! I did not want to marry my father! Greg complained: Tess treats me like one of the children! She thinks I am completely incompetent! They were simpatico in their restlessness. And where did this lead them? It led to nights when, at three in the morning, Delilah would drive Greg home. Greg would sometimes sit in the passenger seat oblivious to the world before stumbling to his front door, his guitar in its case banging into him like an inebriated sidekick. But he would sometimes direct Delilah to Cisco Beach, where they would watch the waves. Greg would tell her how much he wanted to touch her, kiss her, make love to her, and Delilah would stave him off. We can’t, it will end up in such a mess, our incredible friendship trashed, the guilt will kill you, you don’t think so now, but trust me.

A few nights he shushed her, his finger, callused from too many E minor chords, lightly touching her lips. And then he cupped his hand around her neck and pressed his face to her ear. He breathed into her until she thought, Okay. Just this one time, okay. But they had never so much as kissed. Not even one kiss. She held steady. Her body was the Hoover Dam, resisting the force of all that water. It could hurt. It would hurt Tess and Jeffrey and the four little children at home; it would hurt Greg and Delilah’s friendship. Once Greg had her, he would weary of her. It wouldn’t be as great as he hoped. Whereas to keep him at bay, to keep him always wanting this thing that was just beyond his reach, was to hold him captive.

He sent her love notes on cocktail napkins and cardboard coasters: You look beautiful tonight. Will you run away with me? He made her CDs and left them in her car; he sent her text messages from school: U staying late 2nite? He dedicated songs from the stage: This one’s for you, Ash (because her maiden name was Ashby). He told her dirty jokes, he noticed when she got a pedicure. He said, You are my best friend. When they were all together, the eight of them, the group, he sent her a signal—two fingers, crossed. You and me, babe.

Then came April Peck.

Greg had a day job. He was the high school music teacher. It should not have been allowed—to put someone so goddamn good-looking, with so much magnetism and talent, in that position. But there it was. Greg taught music appreciation to all ninth-graders, he taught guitar to juniors and seniors (this was mostly boys), and he directed the exclusive all-girls a capella group, the High Priorities. It was the girls who were the problem. These were girls with voices like angels, with perfect pitch. When a girl made it into the High Priorities—it was fiercely competitive; tryouts were the first week of May every year, and the whole student body held its breath to find out who made it—she stayed until she graduated. The High Priorities, the twelve of them, were Greg’s darlings. They were all in love with Greg; that was no secret. They were his groupies, his harem. They baked him cookies, they left elaborate illustrated notes like “We U, Mr. Mac!” on his chalkboard while he was at lunch, they endured painful scales and voice exercises (“Red leather, yellow leather!”). They memorized lyrics in twenty-four hours. Greg lifted his hands and they sang; he brought his hands down and they stopped.

All the girls were beautiful. Even if they were heavy (and yes, it did seem like the best singers were heavy) or had acne or wore braces or their toes turned in. They were all beautiful when they were onstage in their white jeans and pink cashmere twinsets. They were sassy and sexy, they were luminous, aglow. So much feminine beauty and energy and talent, those bodies blossoming, those hearts unfolding, the desire and the jealousy and the yearning for praise, for distinction and admiration—God, it was a time bomb. Delilah had warned Greg about this: all those girls with their raging hormones, their new breasts, their asses squeezed into skin-tight jeans, all falling over themselves to make Greg MacAvoy happy, to be chosen for solos, to sing like a nightingale. It would get him in trouble one day. He had to be careful.

But Greg was careful. Delilah had for years watched him be careful. He taught his girls to sing together, to practice blending their voices. Harmony! he shouted. Listen to one another! He agonized over who to give solos to; he never played favorites. You’re all my favorites, he told them again and again. You’re all my highest priority.

But teenage girls were fragile. They were both brave and stupid. They were innocent and cunning. A few girls, over the years, had fallen so in love with Greg they nearly drowned in it. Greg was always kind, always firm, always funny and avuncular. You feel this way now, but you’ll get over it. You’ll grow up and shine your light and I will seem very small and faraway to you, I promise.