I dig into my bag, working to appear extremely busy and distracted. “I’m gonna jet,” I mumble.

“Mace?”

I freeze, one hand on the strap of my bag, my eyes on the floor. A nostalgic pang resonates through me as soon as I hear his voice. It had been high and squeaky until it broke. He got endless shit about how nasal and whiny he was, and then, one day, the universe had the last laugh, giving Elliot a voice like warm, rich honey.

He says my name again—no nickname, this time, but quieter: “Macy Lea?”

I look up, and—in an impulse I’m sure I will be laughing about until I die—I lift my hand and wave limply, offering a bright “Elliot! Hey!”

As if we’re casual acquaintances from freshman orientation.

You know, as if we met once on the train from Santa Barbara.

Just as he pushes his thick hair out of his eyes in a gesture of disbelief I’ve seen him make a million times, I turn and press through the crowd and out onto the sidewalk. I’m jogging in the wrong direction before catching my mistake halfway down the block and whipping around. Two long strides back the other way, with my head down, heart hammering, and I slam right into a broad chest.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” I blurt before I look up and realize what I’ve done.

Elliot’s hands come around my upper arms, holding me steady only a few inches away from him. I know he’s looking at my face, waiting for me to meet his gaze, but my eyes are stuck on the sight of his Adam’s apple, and my thoughts are stuck remembering how I used to stare at his neck, covertly, on and off for hours while we were reading together in the closet.

“Macy. Seriously?” he says quietly, meaning a thousand things.

Seriously, is it you?

Seriously, why did you just run off?

Seriously, where have you been for the past decade?

Part of me wishes I could be the kind of person to just push past and run away and pretend this never happened. I could get back on BART, hop on the Muni to the hospital, and delve into a busy workday managing emotions that, honestly, are much bigger and more deserving than these.

But another part of me has been expecting this exact moment for the past eleven years. Relief and anguish pulse heavily in my blood. I’ve wanted to see him every day. But also, I never wanted to see him again.

“Hi.” I finally look up at him. I’m trying to figure out what to say here; my head is full of senseless words. It’s a storm of black and white.

“Are you . . . ?” he starts breathlessly. He still hasn’t let go of me. “Did you move back here?”

“San Francisco.”

I watch as he takes in my scrubs, my ugly sneakers. “Physician?”

“Yeah. Resident.”

I am a robot.

His dark brows lift. “So what are you doing here today?”