As I rifled through the shirts, my mother’s closet edged back into my mind. My desire to curl up underneath her clothes like a puppy. Wearing her pants—her “slacks.” How ludicrous they had looked on me; they had only highlighted how pathetic I was. But better the slacks than what they covered, my legs, my self—even Langham hadn’t wanted me!—Langham!—and now, flashing into focus, my father standing in the doorframe, That’s very short. Shame bubbled up in me again. I grabbed the red cotton T-shirt with a big pocket on the breast, a high crew neck, so soft—the shirt I wore when I wanted to look bold while remaining hidden—and pulled on the jeans from yesterday. Freud would help me; Freud would save me. My phone buzzed, the screen shone with a text from my mother:

Call when you can.

I turned it off, grabbed my jacket and a protein bar to eat on the way, and quickly, I left.

The bar looked both familiar and strange; I’d seen these lights dozens of times before, stretching up the walls, and yet—had they always been this rich amber hue? Had the bar always had this particular shine? I remembered sitting in that seat right near the corner—brown leather, not red, as it had been coded in my mind. Could it have been only yesterday? I saw you, Freud had said, and patio guy flashed into my mind. I looked furtively around the bar, but no, he wasn’t here. No patio guy, no Dominic, no nobody. Just me, and Ed, and—soon—Freud.

Before Ed could speak to me, before he could even see me, I snuck out to a narrow hallway that ran alongside one wall of the bar. I’d peered down it a few times, curious what lay behind the door at the end. What else could it be but Freud? I walked along the hallway, growing high with anticipation.

The door was open a crack, and I could make out Freud, lying almost supine in his chair, feet propped on the desk in front of him, head cocked to the side. I knocked. He licked the tip of his middle finger and used it to dog-ear the page of his book, which he closed and placed on the desk. He removed his reading glasses and placed them on top of the book, then finally rose out of the chair and made his way toward the door. At his approach, I began to sweat. My jacket was overwarm for the morning. I fiddled with the napkin, still in my pocket; it was beginning to disintegrate under my fingers’ constant probing. Had he meant come back whenever you want? Or had he just meant come back one time? But he had said it again last night, hadn’t he, when I’d left the bar—or had I imagined that? I hadn’t taken the napkin out and looked at it in hours and wondered with a hit of panic whether his words were still etched there. I thought about leaving, but he was three feet away, now two, now one, now creaking open the office door. He looked impassive, neither delighted nor disappointed, impressed nor unimpressed, and definitely not surprised.