It took her a few moments to answer it. A light went on the hallway, then she opened the door, keeping the chain on.

Ruth peered out through the crack. She looked older. She must be in her eighties now; smaller, frailer than I remembered, and slightly stooped. She was wearing a gray cardigan over a pale pink nightgown.

“Hello?” she said nervously. “Who’s there?

“Hello, Ruth.” I stepped into the light.

She recognized me and looked surprised. “Theo? What on earth—” Her eyes went from my face to the clumsy, improvised bandage around my finger, with blood seeping through it. “Are you all right?”

“Not really. May I come in? I—I need to talk to you.”

Ruth didn’t hesitate, only looked concerned. She nodded. “Of course. Come in.” She undid the chain and opened the door.

I stepped inside.

CHAPTER NINE

RUTH SHOWED ME INTO THE LIVING ROOM. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

The room was as it had always been, as I’d always remembered it—the rug, the heavy drapes, the silver clock ticking on the mantel, the armchair, the faded blue couch. I felt instantly reassured.

“To be honest, I could do with something stronger.”

Ruth shot me a brief, piercing glance, but didn’t comment. Nor did she refuse, as I half expected.

She poured me a glass of sherry and handed it to me. I sat on the couch. Force of habit made me sit where I had always done for therapy, on the far left side, resting my arm on the armrest. The fabric underneath my fingertips had been worn thin by the anxious rubbing of many patients, myself included.

I took a sip of sherry. It was warm, sweet, and little sickly, but I drank it down, conscious of Ruth watching me the whole time. Her gaze was obvious but not heavy or uncomfortable; in twenty years Ruth had never managed to make me feel uncomfortable. I didn’t speak again until I had finished the sherry and the glass was empty.

“It feels odd to be sitting here with a glass in my hand. I know you’re not in the habit of offering drinks to your patients.”

“You’re not my patient anymore. Just a friend—and by the look of you,” she added gently, “you need a friend right now.”

“Do I look that bad?”

“You do, I’m afraid. And it must be serious, or you wouldn’t come over uninvited like this. Certainly not at ten o’clock at night.”

“You’re right. I felt—I felt I had no choice.”

“What is it, Theo? What’s the matter?”

“I don’t how to tell you. I don’t know where to start.”

“How about the beginning?”

I nodded. I took a breath and began. I told her about everything that had happened; I told her about starting marijuana again, and how I had been smoking it secretly—and how it had led to my discovering Kathy’s emails and her affair. I spoke quickly, breathlessly, wanting to get it off my chest. I felt as if I were at confession.

Ruth listened without interruption until I had finished. It was hard to read her expression. Finally she said, “I am very sorry this happened, Theo. I know how much Kathy means to you. How much you love her.”

“Yes. I love—” I stopped, unable to say her name. There was a tremor in my voice. Ruth picked up on it and edged the box of tissues toward me. I used to get angry when she would do that in our sessions; I’d accuse her of trying to make me cry. She would generally succeed. But not tonight. Tonight my tears were frozen. A reservoir of ice.

I had been seeing Ruth for a long time before I met Kathy, and I continued therapy for the first three years of our relationship. I remember the advice Ruth gave me when Kathy and I first got together: “Choosing a lover is a lot like choosing a therapist. We need to ask ourselves, is this someone who will be honest with me, listen to criticism, admit making mistakes, and not promise the impossible?”

I told all this to Kathy at the time, and she suggested we make a pact. We swore never to lie to each other. Never pretend. Always be truthful.

“What happened?” I said. “What went wrong?”

Ruth hesitated before she spoke. What she said surprised me.

“I suspect you know the answer to that. If you would just admit it to yourself.”

“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I don’t.”

I fell into indignant silence—yet I had a sudden image of Kathy writing all those emails, and how passionate they were, how charged, as if she was getting high from writing them, from the clandestine nature of her relationship with this man. She enjoyed lying and sneaking around: it was like acting, but offstage.

“I think she’s bored,” I said eventually.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because she needs excitement. Drama. She always has. She’s been complaining—for a while, I suppose—that we don’t have any fun anymore, that I’m always stressed, that I work too hard. We fought about it recently. She kept using the word fireworks.”

“Fireworks?”

“As in there aren’t any. Between us.”

“Ah. I see.” Ruth nodded. “We’ve talked about this before. Haven’t we?”

“About fireworks?”

“About love. About how we often mistake love for fireworks—for drama and dysfunction. But real love is very quiet, very still. It’s boring, if seen from the perspective of high drama. Love is deep and calm—and constant. I imagine you do give Kathy love—in the true sense of the word. Whether or not she is capable of giving it back to you is another question.”