Memories reel through my thoughts: Leaving for college in a fog. Living in the dorm with Sabrina and, later, in a small apartment off-campus that always seemed to be full of books and beer bottles and clouds of weed smoke. Moving with her to Baltimore for med school and the long nights I spent pseudo-praying that I would be matched at UCSF so I could live close to home again, even if home was empty. How does one condense a lifetime into the time it takes to share a cup of coffee?

“Looking back, it doesn’t feel all that busy,” I say. “College. Med school.”

“Well, and friends and lovers, joy and loss, I assume,” he says, hitting the nail directly on the head. His expression straightens with awareness.

An awkward silence grows like a canyon between us. “I didn’t mean us,” he says, adding in a mumble, “necessarily.”

With a dry laugh, I lean back in my seat. “I haven’t been marinating in bad feelings, Ell.”

Wow, that’s a lie.

When his phone buzzes again beside him, he pushes it away. “Then why not call?”

“A lot happened.” I shift back a little in my seat as our drinks arrive.

His eyebrows slant down in justifiable confusion. I’ve just told him my life was essentially rote and straightforward, but then too much happened to bother calling.

My mind cycles through a calendar of years gone by, and another sour awareness rolls over me. Elliot turns twenty nine tomorrow. I’ve missed nearly all of his twenties.

“Happy early birthday, by the way,” I say quietly.

His eyes go soft, mouth curving at the edges. “Thanks, Mace.”

October 5 has always been a tough day for me. What will it feel like this year, now that I’ve laid eyes on him? I cup my hands around my warm mug, changing the subject. “What about you? What have you been doing?”

He shrugs and sips his cappuccino, wiping a casual finger across his upper lip when it comes away foamy. Obvious comfort in his own body causes renewed heat to ripple through mine. Never have I known someone so wholly himself as Elliot.

“I graduated early from Cal,” he says, “and moved to Manhattan for a couple years.”

This hits the stall button in my brain. Elliot personifies Northern California, with all its shaggy chaos. I can’t imagine him in New York.

“Manhattan?” I repeat.

He laughs. “I know. Total insanity. But it’s the kind of place I could only stomach in my twenties. After a few years there, I interned at a literary agency for a while, but didn’t love it. I came back here almost two years ago and started working for a nonprofit literacy group. I’m still there a couple days a week, but . . . I started writing a novel. It’s going really well.”

“Writing a book.” I grin. “Who would have guessed?”

He laughs harder this time, and the sound is warm, and growling. “Everyone?”

I find myself biting both of my lips to rein in my smile, and his expression slowly straightens. “Can I ask you something?” he asks.