And so we got a couple gyros on Seventh Avenue and took them up to Prospect Park to eat while we sat on a bench overlooking the grassy field. When we were done, I said, “Come on, wild boy. Let me show you the botanical gardens. You think you like Brooklyn now, just wait. It’s the perfect day for it.”

And it was. Late April, the cherry trees so fat and fluffy with pink blossoms, a few drifting down into Noah’s hair, which I left for effect. What the lad didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Thousands upon thousands of flowers were in bloom, and Canada geese strutted about, their little goslings following in quick, darting movements. The constant noise of traffic and music that defined the city was silent here, and the smell of grass and flowers combined in the perfect perfume. Ahead of us was a guide dog, a Golden retriever, and I thought of Pepper. Would she like the city? Probably not at all, given what she was used to, romping on the shores of the tidal river, going for swims in the Sound, rolling in dead seagull whenever possible. Maybe she’d transition to pigeons. The thought made me wince. The pavement in New York could get so hot that . . .

Okay, no. I wasn’t going to worry about that right now. My father was getting better, and I’d be in Stoningham till the end of summer, and it wasn’t even May. People had dogs in New York. Pepper would be fine.

And I was with Noah, whose hair had escaped the elastic. Women looked at him, and so did a few men—he was cooler than cool because he wasn’t trying at all. Levi’s and work boots that actually saw work, a worn flannel shirt over a dark green T-shirt devoid of ironic sayings or rock band names. He was authentic, and that was something rare in this part of Brooklyn, especially among men our age.

“This is so beautiful,” Noah said as we walked under an archway of entwined cherry blossoms. “I can see why you love this part of the city. There’s a lot more to it than cement and noise.”

My heart hurt. “True,” I whispered.

“I’m glad we’re friends again.”

“Me too, Noah. I missed you.” There it was, my heart on a plate, waiting for him.

He nodded. “Same.”

A man of few words. We looked at each other a long minute. “Okay,” he said briskly. “What’s in that glass place there?”

“A whole lotta fun, that’s what,” I said, a little relieved. “Off we go!”

The conservatory was fun, a creative array of biospheres to explore. I tucked the hurt away, not saying anything about how things could’ve been if only he’d been a little more open-minded back then, and just . . . relaxed.