One week later, as I returned from a morning walk, the motel manager handed me a slip of paper with a bemused expression. “You’ve been popular,” he said. “Phone’s been ringing off the hook since this morning.”

The note read: 22 missed calls. All from the same number. Tiffany.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, the phone heavy in my hand as I contemplated calling back. Our last conversation had been a turning point, not just for me, but for our relationship. The ball was in her court now. Would she see Harry’s true colors? Would she understand the boundaries I needed to set?