“Call me Calla, honey.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Calla.”

Noah sits on the couch facing his mom. I put the Brazilian edition back on her shelf and join him.

Calla nods at the books. “My son loved these stories growing up.”

I glance at Noah, unsure how to respond. His face gives away nothing, and my heart goes out to him. As much as I’ve lamented not getting an adult relationship with my mother, I can’t imagine her forgetting me.

“I love them, too,” I say.

Calla smiles at me more broadly now. “Which one is your favorite?”

I lean in closer, drop my voice. “I hear Noa Callaway is writing a new book. It’s supposed to be the best one yet.”

“Did you know that?” Calla asks Noah. “A new book from Noa Callaway!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Noah says, his eyes on me.

“My tender boy,” Calla says. “I worry for you. Love is never so easy as it is on the pages of a book.”

“Mom,” Noah says, his tone half tease, half earnest plea for her to stop. “Bernadette embarrassed me enough in front of Lanie last month. Let me keep a little dignity, if you can.”

I look at Calla, but when I see the blankness in her expression, I understand she doesn’t remember who Bernadette is. I think back to the picture in Noah’s office, when they’d all been young and smiling and well. I look to Noah, wondering what he’s thinking, but he’s looking away.

“That’s nice, dear,” his mother finally says, her tone more distant now. “Have you had breakfast yet? I put the cornflakes on the table.”

An hour later, we’re back at D.C.’s Union Station, and our rapport feels different, like we’ve come through something together. Noah will stay the night in D.C., but first he’s walking me to my train. He signals for me to wait as he slips inside a newsstand. A moment later, he returns, a bottle of water and two peppermint patties in his hands. He tucks them in the tote bag slung over my shoulder.

“How did you know I love these?” I say as we walk down the stairs to the quay. The train’s already boarding. I wish we had more time.

He scratches his chin. “I believe it was our email exchange on the afternoon of October twenty-third in the year twenty—”

“Okay, wise guy—”

“You told me once, and I remembered.”

“Because we’ve been friends,” I fill in what he’d been about to say, “for seven years.”

“And counting.”

We stop before the train. Noah turns to me and meets my eyes. We’re standing close enough that I get a little dizzy.

“Thanks for today,” he says. “I hope it wasn’t weird for you?”