I preferred the jock-ish types found solely at frat parties and raucous keggers. You know the type. Big arms. Beefy pecs and slight beer gut. Guys who are incapable of being gentle. Guys all too happy to tirelessly fuck, piston-like, and definitely not upset when you slip out afterwards without giving them your number.

After those encounters, I’d leave feeling sore and chafed and oddly invigorated. There’s something energizing about getting what you want, even if that something is shame.

But Jeff is different. He’s perfectly normal. Polo by Ralph Lauren normal. We dated an entire month before I dared bring up Pine Cottage. He still thought I was Quincy Carpenter, marketing grunt about to start a baking blog. He had no idea I was actually Quincy Carpenter, massacre survivor.

To his credit, he took it better than I expected. He said all the right things, ending with, I firmly believe it’s possible for people not to be harnessed to bad things from their past. People can recover. They can move on. You certainly have.

That’s when I knew he was a keeper.

“So how was Chicago?” I ask.

From the half-shrug Jeff gives me, I can tell it didn’t go well.

“I didn’t get the information I was hoping for,” he says. “You know, I’d rather not talk about it.”

“And I’d rather not talk about Lisa.”

Jeff stands, struck with an idea. “Then we should go out. We should get dressed up, go someplace fancy and drown our sorrows in too much food and booze. You game?”

I shake my head and stretch cat-like across the sofa. “I just don’t have it in me tonight. But you know what I’d really like?”

“Wine from a box,” Jeff says.

“And?”

“Take-out pad thai.”

I muster a smile. “You know me so well.”

Later, Jeff and I make love. I am the initiator, tugging the case file out of his hands and climbing on top of him. Jeff protests. A little. It’s more like feigned protest. Soon he’s inside me, exceedingly gentle and attentive. Jeff is a talker. Having sex with him involves fielding a hundred questions. Does that feel good? Too rough? Like that?

Most of the time I appreciate his thoughtfulness, his vocal desire to meet my needs. Tonight is different. Lisa’s death has put me in a mood. Instead of the ebb and flow of pleasure, dissatisfaction seeps into my body. I want the impersonal thrusting of those nameless frat boys who thought they were seducing me when it was the other way around. It’s like an internal rash, irritated and itchy, and Jeff’s earnest lovemaking doesn’t come close to scratching it. Yet I pretend it does. I fake moan and squeal like a porn star. When Jeff asks for a progress report, I cover his mouth with mine, just so he’ll stop talking.

Afterwards, we cuddle while watching Turner Classic Movies. Our usual post-coital habit. Lately, that’s become my favorite part of sex. The aftermath. Feeling his firm and furry body next to mine as rapid-fire forties speak lulls us to sleep.

But tonight sleep doesn’t come easily. Part of it is the movie—The Lady From Shanghai. We’ve reached the ending. Rita Hayworth and Orson Welles in the hall of mirrors, their reflections shattering in a hail of bullets. The other part is Jeff, who shifts uneasily beside me, restless under the covers.

Eventually, he says, “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what happened with Lisa Milner?”

I close my eyes, wishing sleep would grab me by the throat and drag me under. “There’s not really anything to talk about,” I say. “Do you want to talk about your thing?”

“It’s not a thing,” Jeff says, bristling. “It’s my job.”

“Sorry.” I pause, still not looking at him, trying to gauge his level of annoyance with me. “Do you want to talk about your job?”

“No,” he says, before changing his mind. “Maybe a little.”

I roll over and sit up, leaning on my left elbow. “I gather the defense isn’t going well.”

“Not really. Which is all I can legally say about it.”

There’s very little Jeff’s allowed to tell me about his cases. Client confidentiality rules extend even to spouses. Or, in my case, future ones. It’s another reason Jeff and I are a good fit. He can’t talk about his cases. I don’t want to talk about my past. We get to hopscotch over two of the conversational traps that usually ensnare couples. Yet for the first time in months, I feel like we’re close to being caught in one and struggling mightily to avoid it.

“We should sleep,” I say. “Don’t you have to be in court early tomorrow?”

“I do,” Jeff says, looking not at me but the ceiling. “And did you even stop to consider that’s why I can’t sleep?”

“I didn’t.” I drop onto my back again. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think you understand how big this case is.”

“It’s been on the news, Jeff. I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Now it’s Jeff’s turn to sit up, lean on his elbow, look at me. “If this goes well, it could mean big things for me. For us. Do you think I want to be a public defender forever?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Of course not. Winning this case could be a huge stepping stone. Hopefully to one of the big firms, where I can start making real money and not live in an apartment paid for by my girlfriend’s victim fund.”