“Yeah,” I said, stretching an arm up, grabbing my elbow with my opposite hand. I turned her words over in my head. Did I know this? There had been a time with Angie, a moment early on, where I had thought, “This is it. This is being in love.” But our relationship had never been easy, for either of us. Maybe Angie had been right: Maybe we’d never even been in love at all. And if that was true, what the hell did that say about me?

“Have you told her?” I asked, not wanting to dwell on yet another possible flaw in my character.

She shook her head. “I will, but right now it just feels nice to know it myself.”

I sat down next to her, half-heartedly stretching my legs and picking at blades of grass that poked up by my shins. I didn’t want to think about my marriage falling apart, because it all fell squarely on my shoulders. And then I’d have to face the insecurity that remained, that maybe I wasn’t meant for a relationship with anyone.

*  *  *

A few nights later, I was pacing the floors of the new office space, anticipating Franny’s arrival. It was a relief to know that we had a designer on board, and that things were finally back on track. In the last forty-eight hours, she’d sent over a barrage of emails to Eleanor and me—lighting fixtures to approve, a few different sources for repurposed wood to check out, some article on the best ergonomic desk chairs. And then, a two-page outline on rooftop gardens, and the benefit of a green space within a work environment.

She’d hand-sketched a simple design plan, with planters, a small seating area, and a long industrial table with benches. Utilizing the outdoor space this way was such an obvious and brilliant idea that when she’d first texted me, I’d been embarrassed I hadn’t thought of it first.

Tonight, she burst off the elevator like an exclamation point. “Hayes!” she shouted, giant box in hand. A delivery guy from the hardware store pushed a large pallet of wood and bags of soil behind her. Do not look at her legs, I told myself, because they were bare and long and tempting in cutoff jean shorts. I turned my attention to her hands, pressed around the box. This was a safe spot for my gaze to land. Her nails were a bright cherry red. I’d never noticed a color on them before, and my eyes shot to them instantly, and then followed her long slender fingers to her wrist, which was curved and smooth and—

“Hey,” she said as she got closer.

“Want me to take that?” I asked, outstretching a hand.

“No,” she said, enunciating the word as if I’d offended her. “I know the first time you saw me holding a box I was falling apart, but I got this.”