“Press six,” she said. She was too nervous to do so. She wondered if she even had feeling in her arms. She lifted them to test it, and yes, demonstrably, her brain still connected to her limbs, so at least that was set. Bowen watched her raise her arms like a zombie, then lower them to her sides. She did it again.

“Are you sure you’re OK?” He squinted, really looked at her, took a step closer. “I’m just following your lead here, but . . . I mean . . . Cleo, is it rude to say that you are looking a little . . . peaked?”

She was looking peaked, she knew. She could feel herself growing more peaked with each floor they ascended. But she thought of that yellow pad of paper, and she thought of her 233 regrets, and she thought that some of them were silly but some of them were profound, and if she, Cleo McDougal, junior senator to New York State, couldn’t right this wrong, address this grievance, then maybe she was not the woman she assumed herself to be. She stared at the ceiling and realized she truly wasn’t here to merely address her own regret. She wanted Nobells to confess to his too. MaryAnne had tugged at this thread, and now that Cleo was pulling it, she couldn’t stop until the whole thing unwound.

She wiped her palms on her jeans. This didn’t really help.

“I’m fine,” she said. Bowen did not appear convinced.

The elevator dinged, and Cleo pushed her breath out, then stepped over the gilded divide between the elevator and her past and onto the cold tile floors that she’d walked down so many times, so many years ago.

Nobells’s office door was propped open. People don’t change, Cleo thought as she rounded the corner and saw it ajar, then came to such an abrupt halt that Bowen tripped over her.

“Shit, sorry,” he whispered, retreating again behind her.

Cleo was too anxiety-ridden to answer.

“Last chance,” he said. “Let’s just go. Get a drink. This doesn’t matter.”

That rattled her, brought her to. She turned and met his eyes.

“It does matter, Bowen. That’s the point.” She started to say: acknowledging my wrongdoing matters, but she wasn’t quite there. If she’d been ready to take that leap, she would have circled back to MaryAnne and apologized with sincerity. Instead she said: “He nearly ruined my career. What if he’s done this to other women who weren’t as lucky?”

Bowen bounced his head and unlocked his phone.

“OK, let’s go,” Cleo said.

She straightened her posture, brushed her hair back, and strode down the hall, pausing only momentarily outside Nobells’s door. Cleo raised her fist, knocked, though it was just a courtesy, since the door was open and welcoming.

His face fell for just a second; then it washed with confusion and then, finally, recognition. Nobells leaped to his feet, his chair squeaking just as it used to, the air smelling of books and an illicit cigar and that musky aftershave, just as it used to.

“Cleo!” he exclaimed and moved toward her. He pulled her into an embrace. As her muscle memory kicked in, Cleo thought that she might throw up.

She pressed her hands against his chest, putting space between them, then untangling completely.

“Should I call you Senator McDougal now?” he asked. “I always knew. I always knew.” He wagged a finger at her like he had been part of her success, like he hadn’t been anything other than a blight in her history. He eased back into his chair, then peered at her with sudden surprise, as if it were just occurring to him—this brilliant legal mind who had taught the best and the brightest at Columbia and had been a Big Law partner for twenty years—why his former student and ex-mistress might be showing up unannounced on an otherwise unremarkable day.

“Please, come sit.” He gestured to the leather love seat. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Cleo did not sit. To begin with, she didn’t want to. They used to have sex on that same couch or at least one markedly similar. She glanced at it, as if she could replay their movie reel, and then she wondered how many other young women had fucked him there too. But beyond that, she worried, despite her steely exterior, that if she moved even a step, her legs would betray her and she might collapse from nerves right there. And that, quite obviously, would be a mess. She could already see the headlines now. Senator McDougal Collapses from Heat Exhaustion in an Air-Conditioned Building! Or: Senator McDougal Suffers Emotional Breakdown in Front of Former Professor! The opposing party could fundraise off that for years. Market her fragility. Claim that she was basically half-dead or completely out of her mind with hysteria, when she was confronting a man who was twenty years her senior and probably relied on Viagra to get an erection. But, she knew, the headline would be about her.

“I’m not really here for pleasure,” she said.

Nobells’s brow furrowed. The decade-plus had treated him well. The lines on his face had grown deeper, but they added to his charm. His hair was still thick and espresso with no grays; his stubble was still intoxicating. Cleo remembered how he used to kiss her with that stubble until her cheeks felt raw, how she’d slather on coconut oil the next morning to try to disguise how he had left his mark.

“Do you need legal advice?” he asked.

“No.” Cleo let the silence rest between them. She wanted him to squirm, to feel as off-kilter as she did, or as she had, especially that night with the roast chicken and the Italian merlot and with his wife and children out of town.

Cleo had still been uncertain about his intentions, even when they clinked their wineglasses and he pulled the chicken out of the oven and insisted on serving her. He led her to the dining table, pulled out her chair, then placed a linen napkin on her lap. It was so intimate that Cleo couldn’t meet his eyes when he asked her if she’d like a refill on her wine.

Dinner was exceptional, as promised: the chicken and warm rolls with butter and a salad with pears and pine nuts and a champagne dressing that he also made from scratch. For Cleo, who was used to eating microwavable macaroni and cheese or the remnants of whatever Lucas left on his high-chair tray, it was, honestly, a bit of a miracle. Like manna from the heavens.

They went through Cleo’s bottle of wine quickly. Even the next morning, back at home with Lucas, Cleo realized that they’d gone through it too quickly, and maybe if they hadn’t, she wouldn’t have been so reckless. But they had, and she couldn’t turn back time.

She stared at him now, all these years later, and remembered how his bedroom had smelled of cologne and of sex and also of waffles, which he whipped up for her at ten p.m., once she begged off staying the night (she had never spent a night apart from Lucas and had no intention of doing so even then), and in lieu of the breakfast he said he would have made. She could hear him singing along to Toto’s “Africa” while she was still tucked under his duvet, naked. And maybe that was the moment to get up and walk away—while he was cracking eggs and adding vanilla extract, only one mistake made rather than a hundred of them, but she was twenty-three and exhausted and had no way of knowing how far in over her head she was.

After dinner, Cleo was certainly drunk. She didn’t know if he were or not: she hadn’t been around many middle-aged men and really didn’t have any idea how many glasses of wine it took them to wobble their way to the couch. She certainly wobbled her own self over, plunked down, and wondered what on earth would happen next. She remembered feeling like a bystander in her own story, telling herself that if he kissed her, she’d allow it, and if he didn’t, she could leave without embarrassing herself. Of the list of many concerns that Cleo had in her life, embarrassing herself was certainly up there. Top three, perhaps.