“I hate that I don’t believe you,” Ezra said. “I hate that you made it so I don’t believe you.”

There was a pause. A moment where they both looked at each other, sized each other up.

“I hate that you don’t believe me, either,” she said, finally. She didn’t want to explain, didn’t want to tell him how many times she’d listened to that song and why. How she’d known how to play it years ago, and that she’d been playing it in her mind all afternoon, imagining her hands on the keys again. She knew she should. Still, she’d answered so many of his questions. It was time for him to answer hers.

“What happened to you at work today?” she asked again.

This time Ezra responded. “Malcolm died,” he said, flatly. “And his mother blamed me. She was hysterical. Her husband had to hold her back. She—she tried to hit me. She said that I killed him, that if I were a better doctor he would still be alive. It was . . . awful.”

“Oh, Ez, I’m so sorry,” Emily said. She thought of Malcolm’s siblings. She thought of the pain they must be in, that his mother must have been in to act that way. And she thought about Ezra, too, how those words had likely confirmed his own feelings, his own failure. Probably made him feel exposed in front of his colleagues. She wondered when he’d cried. Where he’d been. She wanted to hug him, but he’d wrapped his arms around himself, leaving no room for hers. “I wish you’d told me,” she said. “Not just so I would’ve known what to say to Hala, but so I could help you.”

“I didn’t want to upset you even more,” he said. “You’ve been so sad.”

“Are you saying it’s my fault that you didn’t tell me?” That was what it sounded like to her. It was her fault when she kept something from him, and now it was her fault when he kept something from her. Emily tried to get him to look at her, but he was still turned toward the window, at the lights shining bright around the edges of Central Park.

“I don’t know,” Ezra said. “Maybe.”

“I can always take on more for you,” she said. “And I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong. I can’t be there for you.”

He turned to her. “I can’t either, Emily. We could’ve talked about what happened in your past, and how it’s affecting you now. We could’ve walked through that together, instead of you reading in bed alone.”