“Because of last night?” he asked, tentatively.

“In part,” Emily answered.

She heard Rob breathe out on the other end of the phone. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

She could hear the sympathy in his voice and the guilt. But it wasn’t all his fault. She didn’t want him to think it was. Emily pulled herself out of the foot traffic in the station and leaned against a marble wall.

“It’s not just you. Something happened with one of my patients after I went home, and then Ezra came home and . . . there’s just a lot going on,” she said.

“I’m sorry things are rough.” A couple laughed loudly as they passed by her. “Where are you?” Rob asked.

“Thanks,” Emily said. “I’m in Grand Central—headed to Ari’s.”

“I see.” Rob paused. “Did you say you’re writing a song?”

Emily smiled. “I am,” she said. “I’m writing my very first song.”

She heard him laugh on the other end. “Well, good for you,” he said.

Emily could hear something in the background, where Rob was. Maybe waves? Wind? “Where are you?” Emily asked.

“Cancun, Mexico,” he answered. “Just checked into my hotel. I’m doing a show here tonight and tomorrow. It’s the start of fall break.”

Of course. That made sense. If NYU had break, then so did the other schools. And he’d mentioned Mexico last night.

“Are you on the beach?” she asked. “Do I hear waves?”

“I’m actually on my private balcony overlooking the beach,” he said.

She imagined it—the sun, the sand, the palm trees. “That sounds wonderful,” she told him.

Rob was quiet for a moment and then said: “Come. Flight’s on me. I’ve got a villa, and there’s a whole empty bedroom and an extra bathroom with your name on it. More fun than Connecticut. And you can play with me, if you want, on stage. We’ll make you the special guest. You can work on your song. Let’s be the Sonny and Cher, the Johnny and June Carter Cash of our generation—even if it’s just for one night.”

Emily imagined herself in Mexico, on the beach, in the sun. She imagined herself on stage again. She imagined making music with Rob. The counseling center was open over break, but almost all the students had canceled. They were going to do some professional-development thing that she could easily miss tomorrow—especially if she was taking a leave, which she was still planning to do, whether Ezra liked it or not.

She passed by the S train, which would take her near Penn Station. From there it was easy to get to JFK. She imagined herself on a balcony overlooking the beach and felt the tension she’d been carrying in her shoulders release.

“There’s a separate bedroom and bathroom?” she confirmed.