IT WASN’T UNEXPECTED to run into Jasper; given the smallness of the Manhattan media world, the only question had been when the encounter would happen. The answer turned out to be a Wednesday evening publication party for a White House memoir by a former national security advisor also known for her magnificently toned calves.

The party occurred at an event space on the twenty-second floor of a building on Columbus Circle. Three other people entered the elevator in the lobby with Liz, and just before the doors closed, an arm shot through them, followed by a male voice saying, “Hold up!” Presently, the rest of Jasper appeared. He and Liz made eye contact, and he smiled. “Hey! It’s you.”

Guardedly, Liz said, “Hi.”

He had always been handsome and still was, but Liz noticed for the first time how old he looked: His curly blond hair was more silver, and the corners of his eyes were marked by crow’s-feet. When had this happened? She didn’t derive pleasure from her observations; instead, they made her sad.

Everyone disembarked on the twenty-second floor, and Jasper set a hand on the sleeve of her coat to hold her back. He said, “I’m trying to respect your wishes here, but do you really need to starve me out?”

“I’m not starving you out.”

“What, then—we’re just done? After everything?”

“You had your chance.”

“If you’re boning some other dude, just promise me it isn’t Darcy.” She said nothing, and as more guests spilled out of another elevator and passed them, Jasper added, “Can’t we at least grab coffee? I miss our conversations.”

She pulled her arm away from his grasp. “Then I guess you shouldn’t have treated me like you did.”