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leave. Back in control. Ready for the next chapter of my life.
    Oh, how wrong I was.

Chapter Five
     
    “I cannot believe you did that!” I shrieked through giggles. “You were so rotten. That was really a rotten schoolboy thing to do.”
    Brandon was laughing so hard tears were starting to form at the rim of his eyes. In between laughs and gasps for air he said, “But…it…was…so…funny.” He went through another fit of hard laughter. “She was asking for it, after all.”
    “Brandon,” I said, trying to stifle further laughter. “She was humiliated. And she was just jealous that you were with such a beautiful and sweet and irresistible girl like me.” I held my hand out like a debutant.
    “Yeah, but the look on her face when I told her off was so worth it.”  
    Brandon got a kick out of reliving a less-than-comfortable situation we, back when Brandon and I were a “we,” had when we ran into one of his ex-lovers in a classy restaurant downtown. She was never more than a rumble through the sheets, but she sent some nasty words my way that night when she noticed that I had stolen the heart of Mr. Brandon Crossley. He said something rather naughty and rude in return and the entire situation became uncomfortable for all involved, but most significantly for the little black book lady-of-the-night. In retrospect, and even at the time, there wasn’t that much humoring about the situation, but when you’ve downed two full bottles of Riesling and are working on a rich Chianti that pairs very well with tiramisu, you find almost anything to be hilarious, and worse, you find reliving the good ‘ol days with your ex actually enjoyable.  
    “That was funny,” Brandon said, his laughter calming. “Good times. Good times.” He stabbed at a small piece of tiramisu and brought the fork to my lips; I stole the bite.
    “Mmmm,” I moaned. “I forgot how delicious this stuff is.”
    I don’t know how Brandon and I got into this situation—us cracking open a couple of bottles of wine, strolling down memory lane as we ate some of the best “just like home-cooked” Italian, and lying back on the sofa, sharing a blanket, candle light flickering in what I had hoped was an inadvertently romantic way. But I couldn’t fight the enjoyment and the small, albeit present, satisfaction that I got from this rather tie-less situation. We were no longer a couple, yet somehow we were acting like one. And though I didn’t want him back, the moment was too relaxing and congenial to slip out of. (Although that could have been the wine talking; more than likely.) Why ruin a good thing, right? It felt refreshing to know that I could enjoy this moment without scheming or hoping or planning to recreate the relationship we had undoubtedly lost. It all made me feel sort of…in control. It felt good.
    “Sophie,” Brandon whispered, leaning in close to me as he wiped a small dollop of cream from the side of my lips. He licked it off his finger. “What do you say to…” He pulled himself closer, inching nearer and nearer to me. Mischief sparkled seductively in his eyes; something he did the very first night we made love. It worked every time. And it was working now, too.
    He carefully moved his lips to mine, and before he could steal a kiss I said, “One last time.”  
    Had I surprised myself with my reaction? Suddenly…out of nowhere! Not really. Was I actually consenting to having sex with my ex-boyfriend? Pretty much. Was I hoping he’d take me back after a night of torrid passion? Hell no. I wanted to prove to myself and to Brandon that I had control over the entire wretched ordeal. I wanted to make love to Brandon one last time and awake in the morning not for romantic cuddles or breakfast in bed, but to tell him “thanks and goodbye.” That it was officially over. I wanted to put my end to the relationship. And I kind of wanted one more quick fling with the man who had shamelessly stolen my heart…and three years of