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Sam—lessons for writing in exchange for lessons in sex. Partly because it was another lifetime, and partly because wehad evolved so much since those days—he no longer the suave escort, I no longer the sexually inhibited professor. But with all that had been happening—Wylie’s arrival, the story of how David and Janine met, and memories of Devin and his alluring presence—it was hard
not
to think about it. The contract, however, had always been a sticky matter. We had violated its terms before the ink was even dry, metaphorically speaking, and it had caused all sorts of problems then that seemed insignificant now, given our outcome. And yet, who’s to say what would’ve happened had we followed it to the letter? Would he have asked me out after the seven weeks were up? Or would we have parted ways once and for all? Would he have eventually given up being an escort regardless? If Sam’s death taught me anything, it was not to get caught in the hamster wheel of hypotheticals.
    Nevertheless, if I had just offended him, he either brushed it aside or pretended otherwise.
    “Fine by me,” he said, “but you have to teach me something. No sense in bucking tradition.” His tone was playful again. Charming, even. Just like Devin the Escort all those years ago. And it occurred to me yet again that I had never really gotten over
him
. He was like a crush that occasionally came out to taunt and seduce me.
    “What more can I possibly teach you?” I asked. “You write very well, you know every Beatles song. You even got the hang of two-part harmony.”
    “I want your grandmother’s fried-dough pizza recipe.”
    He’d taken out the big guns. When Sam and I married, my mom presented me with a box of family recipes. My paternal grandmother used to make almost everything from scratch—bread, pasta, sauce, you name it. She kept a garden of herbs and tomatoes in her backyard, and bought meats and cheesesat the Italian deli around the corner from her house in Queens. She passed away two years before my father did (just as well, because his death probably would’ve killed her). To this day I remember the smell of her kitchen, and the way our names used to roll off her tongue in her thick Italian accent. She called my brothers
Giuseppe
and
Antonio
(the only one who was allowed to), and placed the emphasis on the second part of my name:
On-dray-a
.
    Nothing
matched her fried-dough pizza. I’d never actually seen her
make
them—they were always warm and ready and waiting for me when I got home from school and on the days she took care of me. The dough was browned and glossy and robust—never flat—fried in batches before topped with her sauce that she always called “gravy” and four perfect square slices of mozzarella cheese on each one.
    At the time I was unappreciative of the recipe box, especially since Mom had paid me a backhanded compliment along the lines of my now having to cook for my husband since I never cooked for myself. I didn’t even appreciate that she had picked out the box and each recipe herself, and organized it all for me. Sam and I had made many of the recipes together, trying at least one per week when we were first married. The coveted fried-dough pizza turned out to be the hardest to master—forget
master
; we were aiming for
acceptable
. Getting the dough to the proper size and consistency, not to mention replicating the frying process, was key, and many a batch sacrificed themselves in our attempts.
    The first time I made the pizzas by and for myself, sometime after Sam’s death (during what I call my “recovery year”), I broke into tears—not because I missed Sam, but because it was the closest I’d ever come to getting them to taste like mygrandmother’s. And I missed
her
. I missed the simplicity of childhood, wondering if I’d ever really experienced it.
    As Sam and I used to, David and I usually alternated cooking duties and occasionally cooked together. And while the experience was