I remember vividly the night that John first told me he loved me. It came at a time when I never expected it. We’d been out to dinner, a long dinner like we used to have. We split a bottle of champagne and lingered over glasses of dessert wine and a plate of flourless chocolate cake. Four months had gone by since we started dating, and everything had a shiny, rosy tinge to it. I could just think of John and get a rush of happiness. We decided to walk home, hoping to shed some of the thousands of calories we’d ingested, and we walked along Clark Street, swinging our hands, feeling warm despite the bitter cold.

We saw him at the same time, a man stumbling toward us, mumbling under his breath. He wore layers and layers of clothes, as if he was ready to be outside all night. Both John and I got quiet as the man moved closer. John gripped my hand tight. The man passed by us without incident, though, and John loosened his grip. I was about to say something, something about dinner or the cake or something inane, when I felt a great shove against my back.

“What?” I yelled, starting to turn around, and then I felt a pull on the purse strap I held in my other hand. It took me a moment to realize that the man had come back. He and I yanked at opposite ends of my purse like two kids in a tug-of-war, me screaming obscenities. John just stood there for a second, as if his body hadn’t caught up to what his mind was seeing, but then he charged. I mean literally charged into the guy like a bull, his head down, his arms back, and the man flew away from me, landing on the pavement with a thud.

“Oh my God,” I said. “We have to get the police.”

Police was apparently the magic word, because the man scrambled to his feet and took off in a sprint.

John grabbed me, hugging me so tight to his chest that I couldn’t get any air in my lungs.

“I love you,” he said, each word a definitive statement. “I love you so much.”

“Me, too,” I said, although my words were garbled by his coat.

That was the first time I realized that John didn’t wait for the typical moment to say something profound or make a meaningful gesture. For all the strictness and daily consistency he applied to his life, he had a way of surprising me. It was something I liked about him, something that I’d missed lately. But he’d gotten me again this time.

John struggles to stand from his seat on his tan leather suitcase. It was one of the first things that impressed me about him—he had a full set of matching leather luggage, something I found incredibly adult, and therefore alluring, since I had been chasing adulthood down a long, endless street. He looks completely out of place now in this laid-back Grecian village full of sun. He’s pasty-white in his navy-blue pants—the good ones he saves for casual Fridays when he’s going out after work—and his white, button-down shirt. Little spots of red dot his cheeks, which I know from experience could either mean that he’s very worked up about something or just very hot.

“Hi, babe,” John says, his voice full of an uncertainty that I’m not used to. I realize that the spots might mean a third thing—that he’s nervous. “Surprised?”

“Yes! My God.” I rush toward him, then stop a few feet away, unable to find any other words, unclear what my body is supposed to do now.

He looks me up and down. “Wow…you look different…beautiful.”

I ignore the backhanded compliment, unable to get past the shock of seeing him in the midst of this cozy vacation existence I’d created for myself, one that doesn’t include him. He represents reality, the outside world, and the sight of him splinters my carefully crafted enclave. I struggle to rearrange the pieces, even as I take a step back and collect the shards of glass from the wine bottle. But it doesn’t work.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, dumping the glass in a nearby trash can.

As John leans over to help me with the last few pieces of glass, I see him flinch at my question, his expression pained. “You sounded strange on the phone. I thought something might be wrong, and you’re always telling me I’m not spontaneous anymore.” He stands and brushes off his hands. “I bought a ticket for three thousand dollars and got on the next plane, and here I am.” He shrugs, his face full of hope that I’ll be happy to see him.

I know how hard it is for John to do something so expensive. While he was growing up, the Tanner family never had money for the crazy or the unnecessary, and despite his current six-figure salary, John has never lost that spendthrift outlook, subscribing to a rainy-day theory of finance. To my mind it’s much more likely that you’ll get hit by a bus before ever reaching that stormy afternoon when you decide to pull your money out of the bank, but that’s me. And maybe that’s John now, too. Maybe people can change.

“I’m sorry,” I say, taking a few steps forward, crossing to him. I put my lips to his, but it feels foreign, unlike the kisses I shared with Francesco and Billy. He envelops me in a hug, which I return tentatively at first, then fiercely. I do think the world of John. I love him. How could I have betrayed him so casually? I squeeze him harder, pushing my face into the cotton of his shirt. He smells of aftershave, something he normally doesn’t wear. Another change? I wonder. Or something he splashed on to cover the airplane smell?

John pulls back finally, gazing at me, his expression filled with relief. “I’ve missed you, babe,” he says.

I nod and hug him again.

“Holy shit,” I hear, and John releases me.

Kat and Sin are back from the beach, looking sun-kissed and as shocked to see John as I am.

“Hey, guys,” John says, nodding casually in their direction, as if we were back in Chicago, standing at a local pub.

“He came to surprise me,” I explain, trying not to notice their looks that say Are you fucking kidding me?

“Well,” Kat says, shifting her see-through beach bag that’s chock-full of crap to the other shoulder. “Welcome to Greece.” Her tone isn’t exactly open arms, and she seems to realize this. “When did you get here?” she adds.

“I got to Athens early this morning, and then I caught another flight here a couple of hours ago.” Light banter, easy words, as if he didn’t just surprise attack me on my vacation. My mood swings to and fro between surprise and irritation and flattery and hope.

“How did you find the hotel?” Lindsey asks cooly, as if trying to decide how to handle John’s arrival.

John has never said anything bad about Sin, or about any of my friends or family for that matter, but I’ve always gotten the feeling that he isn’t that thrilled with her. It’s the way he clams up when she’s around, his eyes watching her, studying her as if trying to make some sense of her often harsh words, her inability to stand around and make bullshit chatter.

But now he says in a pleasant voice, “Casey told me the name of the hotel when she called, so when I got off the plane, I went from one taxi to another until I found a driver who could understand me.” He smiles and throws his arms up, and I can’t help but smile with him. Good old boring John doesn’t seem quite so boring anymore.

“Hmm,” Sin says, like, Isn’t that interesting. Then she turns to me. “We’re meeting the group for dinner in an hour. You are going.” It’s more of a directive than a question.

“Of course,” I say, because I’m not willing to give up my vacation the way I planned it. More importantly, the thought of being alone with John suddenly terrifies me. Would he see that I’d been unfaithful? If not, would I—should I—tell him?

I turn to John. “We’ve been running around with these people here. You’ll like them.”

“Okay,” he says, running his hand through his fine brown hair. He’d probably envisioned dinner with just the two of us, because he’d just flown thousands of miles to see me. I can’t blame him, but I can’t change our plans, either. A dinner alone could lead to time alone in the room, which could lead to sex. On one hand, the possibility excites me. I’ve been feeling so saucy since my Francesco encounter, but if I fooled around with John because another man had made me horny, wouldn’t I be cheating all over again? This sexual riddle only adds more confusion to the churning emotions in my head.

“Do you need help carrying your stuff to the room?” I ask John, wanting something to say. It’ll be a cozy fit with the four of us in one room, John and I sharing a twin bed, but the island is full.

“No,” John says, “but…” He pauses for a second. “I thought we could get our own room.”

“We’re going up,” Sin says, probably sensing an issue.

“Right,” Kat says. “We’ll see you soon…or later…or whatever.” John’s arrival seems to have left everyone a little stunned.

I nod at them.

“Our own room, huh?” I say to John.

“Yeah.” He sidles toward me, his hands on my hips, pulling me to him. He leans down and nibbles my neck. “We’re a little overdue, don’t you think?”

“Um-hmm,” I say, in a noncommittal tone. It’s been a while since he’s been so hot and bothered for me. I wonder if it’s because I’ve lost weight, or maybe it’s the absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder theory. Still, I don’t think I’m ready, for some reason. If we have sex, I might lose myself in it the way I used to, and then I might wake up in the same place I was before this trip, in the same emotional rut. I don’t want to lose myself anymore. I want to be here for every minute, and yet I don’t know if I can make love to John like that. It’s been so long.

I’m about to explain the overcrowding on the island, when I remember that yesterday I’d heard Mr. Gianopolous turn down some backpackers, telling them he was full.

“Sure,” I say to John, secure in the knowledge that Hotel Carbonaki is booked. “Let’s go ask for a room.”

We knock on the door that leads from the lobby into the Gianopolous’s accommodations.

“Mr. Gianopolous,” I say, when he comes to the door, wearing a tank top, wiping his mouth with a red cloth. “This is my boyfriend.” I almost stall on “boyfriend.” It seems awkward. “He just came from Chicago.” He and John shake hands. “You wouldn’t happen to have any rooms to let, would you?”

“Oh yes!” says the old man, clearly pleased to be helpful. “One lady just leave. Room 9.”

He steps into the lobby, and reaching behind the desk, he hands us the key.

“Great,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with something resembling enthusiasm. “Perfect.”