When I arrived at the wine bar, there was only one open table — dimly lit and intimate. The booze, music and candlelight felt like a callback to our first kiss 15 years before, almost to the day.
There was no sign of him, so I ordered a chardonnay and two small plates, and tried to focus on the novel I brought with me, ironically titled What She Knew. Instead, I found myself flashing back to the last time I saw him.
We had just returned from a trip to Napa to scout wedding venues. After a heated kiss, I drove to my apartment 95 miles away.
Days later, I learned he’d been cheating on me, and I ended our six-year relationship — the best of my life up to that point — with a two-line email. He fired back with a litany of messages, which began with profanity and culminated in pleas.
“PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME. . . YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING,” he screamed through the screen.
