“About that.” I lean my elbows on the broad marble reception desk and smile down at her so she knows I’m not about to get her fired. “What do you say you do me one favor, and then we halt all nonapproved information sharing?”

“No question,” Liz says, eyes wide. “What can I do for you?”

“His cell number would be fantastic.”

Friends call friends, I tell myself. The first step to fixing things is to talk, to clear the air once and for all, and then we can move on with life.

Liz pulls out her phone, opens her Favorites list, and bends, scribbling his phone number.

Elliot’s on her speed-dial.

But I get it: Attentive, considerate, emotionally mature Elliot would be the dream brother-in-law. Of course she’s in regular contact with him.

“But don’t tell him I have it,” I tell her as she tears it off and hands it to me. “I’m not sure how long it will be before I figure out what to say.”

Who am I kidding; this is such a bad idea. Elliot has a story to tell. I have a story to tell, too. We both have so many secrets, I’m not even sure we can backtrack that far.

The entire walk down the hall to the residents’ break room, I keep checking the pocket in my scrubs pants to make sure that I haven’t lost the small Post-it folded inside. Not that I really needed it in the first place. I stared at the numbers the whole ride up to the fourth floor. I guess it never occurred to me that he would have the same phone number all this time. His number used to be a rhythm that would get stuck in my head like a song.

I drop my bag in a locker in the break room and stare down at my phone. My rounds start in five minutes, and where I’m going, I need to be levelheaded. If I don’t do this now, it will be a stone in my shoe the entire shift. My heart is a thunder-drum in my ear.

Without overthinking it, I text,

I work 9-6 today. Do you want to meet for dinner? To talk.

Only a few seconds later, a reply bubble appears. He’s typing. Inexplicably, my palms begin to sweat. It hadn’t occurred to me until now that he could say, No, you’re too big a dick, forget it.

Is this Macy?

Or that he wouldn’t have this number. I am an idiot.

Yeah, sorry. I should have said.

Not at all.

Tell me where, and I’ll be there.

then

thursday, march 13

fourteen years ago

As my fourteenth birthday approached, I could tell that Dad wasn’t sure what to do. For as long as I could remember, we’d always done the same thing: he would make aebleskivers for breakfast, we’d all see a movie in the afternoon, and then I would pig out on a giant sundae for dinner and go to bed swearing I would never do that again.