I scurry my way out of the bathroom, still in my robe and fuzzy bunny rabbit slippers. I spring onto my tippy toes to fetch a water glass down from a cabinet above the sink. Brian’s six-foot-something frame towers over me, offering me the assist. We both exchange a silent smile at each other.

“Want some matzo?” I ask as I rehydrate. “My mom sent me a bunch of boxes.”

“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.” Brian takes a seat at one of the bar stools by the kitchen counter.

“You seem kind of quiet.” I break off a piece of matzo. “I thought for sure by now you’d be telling me about the kid you saw yesterday who was throwing up Windex.”

“Sorry. I’m just exhausted. Last night was...brutal.”

“Lots of runny noses, eh?”

“No. I wish. A four-year-old choked on an apple slice in day care. The workers weren’t certified—botched the Heimlich. We worked on her for a while, but couldn’t save her.”

Is he just trying to trump the time he told me his patient had the bubonic plague?

“I’m serious. It really sucks.” There’s a somberness to his voice and I know he’s not kidding around. I know Brian came over to lend a delayed ear to my urgent texts yesterday, but I want to be respectful of the fact he’s exhausted, he’s sad, and now is not the time to start bringing any life insurance policy fraud evidence. So I table my own drama. For now.

“I’m really sorry to hear that, Brian,” I say.

“Who’s ready for a singles cruuuuiiise,” Casey sings as she comes into frame. “Don’t mind me, just making a little pineapple-rum mixer. Anyone want one? Char, you, of all people, may want to pregame before this. Loosen you up a little before we head out to Catalina.”

Suddenly, three’s a crowd in our tiny kitchen, especially after Casey spills the beans that I’m sailing out to Catalina Island with a bunch of singles for the evening. Not exactly the most appropriate follow-up for just learning he had a rough night at the hospital.

“You’re going on a singles cruise?” he asks with a hint of judgment in his voice.

“No. Well, yeah. But I didn’t sign up for it on my own or anything. Casey won the tickets in a raffle. She asked me to go with her,” I say, trying to sound as neutral as possible. Instead, I sound like a car engine sputtering out its last bits of gasoline.

“Got it,” he says, without any further commentary.

I need to shift gears. I don’t like where this conversation is going, so I make a move and head toward more familiar territory.

“Hey, can you help me with something??”

“Sure. What is it?”

“I wrote a check for a donation to the frat fund-raiser. Here. Could you give it to the treasurer? I’m sure you’re still in touch with all them. It’ll save me the trip to USC. I don’t trust mailing it.”