I hung a photograph Eleanor had taken for me of surfers cresting a wave in Montauk and a painting my grandmother did when I was little, a watercolor of her flower garden in August. I ordered a dining room table after digging through the file Franny had put together of all the vendors she’d used for our office. It was coming in two months from the same sustainable wood source upstate that she’d used for all our desks. I googled “indoor plants that are hard to kill” and made a list. Slowly, my space started to feel more like me, more like a place I wanted to share with people, even if the person I wanted to be there most of all was gone.

One night over Labor Day weekend, after an almost ten-mile run around Central Park, I wandered into my closet postshower, digging around for some sweats to throw on over my boxers and T-shirt. And there it was: my suit jacket. The suit jacket. It had been hanging there, untouched since Franny unceremoniously handed it to me at that morning show taping all those months ago. Dry-cleaned and pressed, pocket square tucked neatly in the front. It had felt like bad luck to wear it again, so I’d left it here, pressed between the wall and another navy-blue jacket, a relic of the moment that had set my life off course—or maybe, set it on course. I wasn’t sure anymore.

I reached for it, sliding it off the hanger and holding it in front of me, thinking of Franny for what felt like the millionth time. I brought it to my nose, hoping for some hint of her there, but all that was left was the faint smell of chemicals. Suddenly self-conscious, I stuck the coat back on the hanger, grabbing the pocket square so I could stick it in my drawer with the others. As I did, a small folded piece of paper fell out and landed on the floor.

Dear Stranger,

Just in case I don’t get a chance to properly say it today: thank you. I don’t know why you did it, but you were there to help me when I most needed it, and I truly appreciate it. (Please forget that story I told you about peeing my pants, though.)

Yours,

Franny Doyle

She had been here this whole time, had known what I needed to hear. And, god, how I wished I could figure out how to tell her: I did it because the second I saw her, I knew she was someone I wanted to be near. I couldn’t stop myself.

And then, just like that moment on the subway, I knew what I had to do. I dashed back into the living room, flipped open my laptop, and hammered out an email in seconds flat.

I know things are weird, but I’d love to talk. Could we meet for coffee?