“Oh, it was Aunt Tiff’s before it was mine, and she never approved of Aunt Tiff living alone in Brooklyn and running a ‘hippie store.’” Mary rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t like the decor that I stock either. She thinks I’ll get wrinkles working there. She thinks men aren’t attracted to women who work for a living. She thinks it pulls my attention away from finding a husband and making babies. Take your pick. The list goes on.”

“And I thought I had problems.”

Mary laughed and raised her eyebrow. “What problems do you have, Seb?”

He opened his mouth, thinking for a second while he caught a few metaphorical flies, and then clapped it closed. “Actually, now that you mention it, all’s good in the hood.” He sat back, looking a little bemused. “Wow. I honestly never thought I’d be able to say that again after Cora died.”

Mary was grateful that Sebastian was at a place where he could bring up Cora in a casual way. There’d been a long time when they’d barely been able to say her name aloud. The best friend and the husband, both of them feeling like half of themselves had been beheaded after Cora’s death. So many things had changed in Mary’s life after that. They’d never really gone back.

It encouraged her to see that though Seb’s life hadn’t gone back to the way it had been either, he was happier than ever. He’d become a more dynamic, kind, thoughtful person because of the pain he’d endured.

Mary only hoped the same could be said for her.

IF HE RAN, as in sprinted, he’d have time to grab a falafel sandwich from a halal cart before he had to jump on the F to the Q100 to make it to Rikers. Technically, if he took a cab, he’d be reimbursed, but public transportation was just as fast, and this way he didn’t have to worry about the fossil fuels he was wasting.

John bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited in a crowded elevator of the Supreme Court building, resisting the urge to shoulder past his colleagues and various anonymous jury members whose time was apparently sweeter than his. Finally, the way was clear, and he sprinted in his dress shoes across the lobby, nodding to his friend Carlo, who worked the long, snaking line of security that all visitors had to pass through to get in.

John had his cash in hand and soon had a falafel sandwich in his life. He attacked his lunch like a raptor pouncing on a wounded triceratops as he strode back into the building to grab his bag and paperwork from the meeting room. He’d just met with an ADA for a blistering three hours, trying to slog their way through plea deal negotiations.