We drink another shot. “So tell me how it happened. How you decided to drop my ass? I get that you didn’t have time for romance when you were grieving your mother, but maybe a tiny ‘Hey, by the way, I have bigger fish to fry. Good luck with your life’ would’ve been nice.” He tosses his lighter on the table.

The alcohol loosens my tongue. So does the unexpected pleasant company. Not to mention, today was the first day in weeks I’ve consumed actual food.

I squint at the cobbled street. “Do you remember when it happened?”

“When what happened?”

“The time I stopped answering.”

He thinks about it for a moment.

“We were texting about my coming to see you in San Francisco.”

I munch on my lower lip. “That day, just when you’d started messaging me, I had been waiting for the BART train to arrive. Standing on the edge of the platform with my mom. I wasn’t paying her much attention. You have to understand that at that time, when I’d just gotten back home, all I wanted to do was sit in front of my phone and wait for you to text me. It was really pathetic. My mom had basically dragged me out the door to come help her at the gallery that day.” I chuckle. Mom was so adamant I leave the house.

I understand that you fell in love and that the world is now so dull in comparison, but Joe is not going to show up at your doorstep in the next eight hours, so you might as well come with me.

Joe takes a drag of his cigarette. Smoke skulks from his mouth and nostrils, making him look diabolic. “I’m following.”

“You had just started texting me, and I got all hyped up. I was twirling on the edge of the platform, waiting for you to write me a message. I was so wrapped up in you I forgot where I was. And . . . well, I fell to the tracks.”

Joe closes his eyes. He shakes his head, ridding himself of the mental image.

“Were you hurt?” He swallows.

“I sprained my ankle and got hit in the head. A train was approaching. Mom tried to pull me up. She was a petite woman. Very petite, actually. She tried, but with my bad ankle and dizziness, I was dead weight. No one wanted to insert themselves into the situation and help her.”

I take a deep breath, feeling shaky. Joe leans forward and pours me another shot of tequila. I down it in one go, wincing as I continue with my story.