Almost defiantly, I answered an ad. Bartender, which was old territory for me since I’d worked my way through college bartending. The restaurant was called Claudia’s, a trendy new place in SoHo.

The morning of my interview, still angry with Nick for not understanding, I accidentally slammed my hand in the front door. My left hand. No cut, but my fingers had taken the worst of it and almost without thinking, I moved my wedding ring from my left hand to my right. I rarely wore my engagement ring, which was surprisingly large. It was also, to my small-town girl’s mind, an irresistible prize for the many roving thieves of New York. Nick only laughed when I told him that and didn’t seem to mind.

But my wedding ring…that was a different story. That ring, I loved—two strands of gold woven together, one slightly darker than the other. It was delicate and beautiful and one of a kind, made by a Vineyard goldsmith. It didn’t look a lot like the classic wedding ring…especially when worn on the wrong hand. Claudia’s manager didn’t ask if I was married, and I didn’t think to tell him.

You get better tips as a bartender if you’re young and pretty…and single. Or if the patrons think you’re single. My fingers were swollen for a few days. The ring stayed on my right hand. It meant nothing. Except, of course, that it did.

Work at Claudia’s was a lot of fun. Located in SoHo on a cobblestoned street, it drew in the Sex and the City-type crowd—beautifully dressed women who wore outfits that cost more than my rent, men who smelled expensive and thought nothing of leaving me a twenty-dollar tip on a ten-dollar drink. And my coworkers…they were just like me. Higher aspirations, temporarily in the service biz, some balancing grad school. None of us planned to be there forever. All of us were in our twenties—Claudia’s owner knew that the actor/model staff drew in a better clientele or something, so we were all slim and good-looking.

As the new kid, I watched from the sidelines, but even the sidelines were thrilling. Occasionally, someone would confide in me—Jocasta had dated Ben, then dumped him for Peter; Ryan needed a roommate and Prish was looking, but did they really want to work and live together? Especially after that one-night stand? Flattered to be included in their drama, their angst, I’d give a noncommittal answer, didn’t take sides and was generally well liked. They fascinated me…they were so free. Big plans, lazy days, a pleasant place to work. The way it was supposed to be at our age.

For the first few weeks, I just watched, did my job, listened. No one asked if I was married, and I didn’t offer up the information. Was I punishing Nick? Of course I was. I barely saw the guy. He said he’d drop by one night and see the place, but the weeks passed and he never did.

I was young, stupid, insecure, lonely. Walking home some nights, I’d feel that dark, pulling thing in my chest and I’d wish I could cry, because I hated Nick, I loved him so much. I felt tricked and betrayed, and I kept waiting for him to do something that would make me feel the way I’d felt before we were married…that I was cherished, loved, irreplaceable. But he was young and stupid too, and the ocean between us darkened and deepened.

I didn’t have the type of bond with my family that would allow me to vomit up my misery over the phone…besides, Willa was only a high school kid and thought Nick and I were the height of romance. BeverLee…no. As for my father, I’d stopped even trying to tell him the truth years ago.

Then one night, a waiter named Dare asked me to hang out with them after closing, and suddenly, I had a group of friends. I don’t think I realized how deep my loneliness went until then. My college friends had grown distant, engrossed in their fabulous careers or the challenges of graduate school. But my coworkers…they were right where I was, at this strange phase of life where we worked, but not in our chosen fields, where Real Life still seemed a way off. They were like butterflies, lovely to behold, free to float and flit wherever the breeze carried them, no responsibilities other than making rent.

Of course, none of them was married. In Manhattan, you started thinking about marriage after living together for a decade or so, when you were closer to forty or fifty than twenty. Married at twenty-one? Willingly? I told myself I’d bring it up…eventually. If the gang and I became closer, sure, I’d tell them in some droll, charming way, make a joke out of my de facto missing husband. Or maybe when Nick finally showed up at Claudia’s, as he continually promised he would. Any pangs of guilt I had on the subject were smothered in the relief of finally belonging.

So I kept my wedding ring on my right hand. Nick didn’t notice…but then again, our marriage now consisted of an occasional bout of sex in the wee hours of the morning and a few polite sentences exchanged here and there, mostly via voice mail. I missed him so much that I literally had to turn myself away from it, to stuff it down and ignore it. And hey. I was good at that sort of thing.

My new circle of friends became more and more important. We ate together before work, an early dinner around four-thirty, and we would try to outdo each other with pithy comments and observations of the city and its inhabitants. We might hang out at Claudia’s after closing, and I’d make specialty drinks, grapefruit gin fizzes, honey-almond martinis. One day, Jocasta, Prish and I braved the mob at Century 21 and bought cheap designer shoes. We went to a book signing in the Village. When Thanksgiving rolled around, Nick had to go to Lisbon, his first international trip with the firm (or ever). I congratulated him, smiled as he packed, kissed him as the car service came to bring him to the airport.

“You sure you’re okay on your own?” he asked, hesitating there on our grimy sidewalk.

“I’ll be fine. I’m going to Prish’s for dinner. Have fun. Good luck!”

I waved as he left, then called my pals and let them know I was free for the animated film festival at the Angelika theater. We all went and felt very sophisticated indeed. Actually, my friends were fairly sophisticated. And shallow and somewhat heartless, but they were better than nothing. I tried to keep up, tried not to feel like such a rube.

The waiter named Dare (short for Darrell, but dear God, don’t ever say that aloud) was a very intense guy…wanted to write the next tormented, twisted, bleak Great American Novel and had plans to get his MFA from somewhere very impressive. Jocasta and Prish both had the hots for him, as did just about every female who walked into Claudia’s. He had long blond hair and smoldering gray eyes, and he was tall and thin and made you want to feed him. He took himself very, very seriously, and hey, it worked. He flirted with me…well, not really. Flirting was beneath him. He stared intensely at me (between serving meals, of course). I knew he was interested, but I certainly didn’t lead him on.

The need to say something about Nick grew, but for whatever reason, I kept waiting. Maybe for him to remember he adored me, to do something so loving and memorable that all doubt would be forever swept away and we’d live happily ever after. Again…I was young and stupid. And the thing with secrets is, the longer you keep them, the more tightly rooted they become.

By the Night of the Unforgivable Event, I’d been working at Claudia’s for almost three months. It was December, and New York is never prettier than at the holidays, Christmas lights in every restaurant and coffeehouse, wreaths on the charming doors of the Village, menorahs winking in windows. Splashy, colorful displays shouted out from the big department stores, and Santa stood on every street corner. Finally, I was falling in love with New York.

As I walked to Claudia’s that night, lazy snowflakes swirling in the dusk, I stopped in front of a shop window. There sat a good-sized model of the Brooklyn Bridge, cast in bronze, solid and lovely. Nick would love it. I’d buy it for him for Christmas. For a second, it felt as if I was standing on the bridge again, Nick on one knee, those Charles Dickens gloves, his beautiful, happy eyes…

Something shifted in my chest, as if a rock had rolled off my heart. I loved my husband. We could get through this long, tough time. Maybe I’d even quit Claudia’s, find something more compatible with Nick’s schedule so we could figure out how to make this work. Tonight, I’d tell my buddies I was married, we’d have a few laughs, whatever.

It was the night of Claudia’s staff-only Christmas party, a Monday when the restaurant was closed. There were about twenty of us including the kitchen crew, and the party was in full swing when I arrived. Prish had commandeered the bar and handed me a cloyingly sweet peppermint drink. The restaurant was loud, bright, festive and happy, my coworkers already buzzed and thrilled to see me. Maybe tonight wasn’t the night for telling everyone about Nick. I’d do it at a more quiet time. That would be better.

Prish’s cocktail invention was vile, so I shook up a few special martinis made with cranberries and Grey Goose. The food was smashing, goat-cheese-and-dried-tomato pizzas and crab cakes with remoulade sauce. Ben wore a reindeer hat, Jocasta had on a blinking-light necklace and a glittery red miniskirt.

By 10 p.m., we all sat around the table in the middle of the restaurant, all of us with a few drinks in us (some with more than a few), all quite happy. At some point—I hadn’t noticed exactly when—Dare’s arm had gone around the back of my chair. Very casual. We were a close bunch by now, and affection was always given freely. We all hugged good-night like a bunch of eighth-grade girls, the guys would do that hand-clasp, lean-in thing and the women would kiss the men’s cheeks. Asking Dare to move his arm would only draw attention to it, so I left the subject alone.

This was a mistake.

Something tickled the back of my neck, and I jumped. Dare gave me a half-lidded, steamy glance, but he didn’t interrupt himself, just kept talking to Ben about some political battle over a federal court appointee. Taking Dare’s hand from my neck, I set it on his lap, and he gave me a sexy little smile. Didn’t touch me again.

After dinner, the noise level (and the alcohol level) had risen. Prish was singing into a fork, Ryan was drumming on the table, keeping time, Ben was rummaging for another bottle of wine, and suddenly Dare turned to me and said, “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for weeks now.” Then he took my face in his hands and did just that.

A wet, sloppy, drunken kiss, fairly horrible, tasted like roasted red peppers. The others burst into applause.

“About time!” Jocasta yelled. “He’s been giving you the eye for ages!”

I pushed away. “Don’t do that again,” I said, adrenaline flooding my legs. This was bad. This couldn’t…I didn’t…he should never have…I had to tell them—

My brain slammed to a halt.

Nick was standing on the street in front of Claudia’s, looking in the window. Looking at me. His mouth was slightly open, as if he didn’t quite believe what he’d just seen.

The blood drained from my face.

For a second, I thought he’d just walk away, and I jolted to my feet, bumping the table. “Nick!” I called, but he was already opening the door.

“Friend of yours?” Dare asked lazily, pouring me some more wine. I ignored him, but my legs started to shake.

Nick came over to the table. “Hi,” he said quietly.

“Hi,” I breathed. He didn’t seem mad. Or even upset, really. Maybe he could tell that was just a stupid sloppy kiss from an irritating poser. His eyes went from me to Dare, then to the others.

“Um, guys,” I said, “this is Nick.”

I guess I sounded weird, or scared, because everyone quieted down.

“Nick? Who’s Nick?” Ben asked, emerging from the back room.

“You sneaky thing, Harper,” Prish said. “I didn’t know you were dating someone.”

The magnitude of what I’d done finally hit me. Nick looked at me, stunned, as if I’d just shot him in the heart. Which, in a sense, I had. He blinked—twice—I was on hyperdrive with the details here—his gypsy eyes as dark as a black hole. “She’s not dating anyone,” he said. “I’m her husband.”