“I love you, too, my little angels. So, so much.”

I go into my room and change into jeans and a sweater. I washed up while the girls were splashing in the tub. No makeup. My hair seems to have been spared the puke-a-thon, but I brush it and put it in a ponytail, then head downstairs.

Gus is just coming in, a bucket and some laundry detergent in his hands. “I cleaned up as best I could,” he says, “but, good God, woman. It’s terrifying in there. You probably need to get the car detailed. Or just set fire to it.” He smiles, his eyes all but disappearing.

“Would you like some coffee?” I ask. “Or do you have to get back to work?”

“I’d love some.” He washes his hands at the kitchen sink, and I make the coffee. Put out some cookies, too—organic oatmeal with fair-trade, locally grown organic cranberries—and we sit at the kitchen table.

“How’s work?” I ask.

Gus is still at Celery Stalk Media, the company where I worked for seven years before I left in my sixth month of pregnancy, an act of mercy for my boss, Adele, who was terrified the girls would slide out at any minute. It was—is—a lovely company, fifteen or so employees, a casual, happy place, as you’d hope it would be. We designed children’s educational software, after all—lessons masquerading as games. I haven’t kept up much; some of the women came over to visit when the girls were a few months old, a blurry, exhausting time that I barely remember. I send a Christmas card, the photo-montage type, and always get a few emails about how beautiful and big the girls are.

A lot of the women at Celery Stalk had a crush on Gus, who is so nice it’s hard to believe he’s genuine. He’s cute rather than handsome; he has a round face and a slightly receding hairline which he doesn’t try to hide; his hair is in a crew cut. He’s only five-eight or so. Adele, our boss, once asked him what his ethnic background was. Italian, he said, with an Inuit great-grandmother, which explained those happy eyes. I think the quality that makes him so popular with women is simply his happiness.

He asked me out once, two days after my first date with Adam. Something casual, like “Want to get a drink sometime?” and I was taken aback; we’d worked together for more than two years, and he’d never shown any special interest toward me. I blushed so hard my face hurt and mumbled something about not being a drinker, really, but maybe a bunch of us could go out for happy hour sometime, I know Eliza had mentioned a new place she’d been wanting to try.

He got the message. Didn’t seem to hold it against me. And truthfully, I forgot about it, caught up in the romance of Adam, who was tall and so handsome and sent me flowers the very next day with a card that said, “I like you a lot, Rachel Tate.” I still have that card, in our photo album, along with a pressed rose from the arrangement.

“Are you seeing anyone, Gus?” I ask now, strangely at ease. Once a guy’s seen you covered in puke, sobbing on the side of a highway...

“No,” he answers. “I was, for a while. A nice woman named Alice. We lived together for a while, but...” He shrugs.

“So no heartbreak?” I ask.

“I didn’t say that.” He smiles a little. “She’s a good person. We just weren’t right for each other. We’re still friends.”

“My sister and her ex are still friends,” I say. “I don’t really understand how that works.”

“It has its awkward moments.” He pauses, but it’s still there, the happiness that we all so loved back in the day. The notion that Gus Fletcher never had a bad day in his life. Naive, but reassuring. “Your daughters are beautiful, by the way. Even when they’re snarling.”

“Sorry Grace bit you,” I say, feeling a smile start.

“It was a first. I’ll be Tweeting it later.” He takes a sip of coffee, his eyes still merry.

“So my husband had an affair,” I say.

“Ah, shit.” His smile drops.

And then I’m telling him everything. The Picture, the denial, the guilt over what I thought, how I just knew when I saw them in the same room. The rage, the fear, the awful, unbearable hurt, the escalator fantasy, which actually makes him laugh. Me, too.

I don’t cry. I just talk. And Gus lets me. I talk for forty-five minutes, according to the clock. And when I’m done, he covers my hand with his, gives it a squeeze and takes it back. “I’m so sorry” is all he says, and those smiley eyes are kind.

“I’m sorry I unloaded on you.”

“I’m not sorry about that.”

He has such a nice face. I wonder what would’ve happened if he’d asked me out a week before he did. Of all my coworkers, I had always liked Gus the best.

Well. No point in going there.

Fifteen minutes later, Gus leaves. “Thank you for everything,” I say, and my voice breaks a little, because the magnitude of his loveliness today, his helpfulness and kindness, hits me in a warm wave.

“I’m really glad I was driving by,” he says, and I can tell he means it. “Tell the girls thanks for exploding like that.” Another smile flashes. “Call me if you ever need your car cleaned again.”

Then he leaves, and that night, around nine, when Adam is watching the Yankees and I’m looking at Pinterest, thinking about repainting our bedroom, I get an email.

It’s from Gus. His phone number, and the words It really was great to see you.

Jenny