For the first time I looked up to see Elliot watching me. His eyes were wide with understanding and he reached over and took one of my hands.

“Did I ever tell you that I have my mom’s hair?” I said.

He shook his head but gave me a real smile. “I think you have the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen.”

now

thursday, october 5

I stand outside the entrance to Nopalito on Ninth, and without having to look too deeply inside, I know Elliot is already in there. I know this because it’s ten minutes past eight. We agreed to meet at eight, and Elliot never runs behind schedule. Something tells me that hasn’t changed.

Pushing inside, I spot him immediately. His napkin slides to the floor and his thighs awkwardly collide with the table in his rush to stand. I notice two things: one, he’s wearing a dress jacket, nice jeans, and a pair of black dress shoes that look newly polished. Two, he got a haircut.

It’s still longish on top, but cut very short at the sides. It makes him somehow a little less highbrow literary hipster and more . . . skater hot. It’s amazing that a look he would never have even attempted in adolescence is one he can absolutely rock at twenty-nine. That said, I’m sure he has only his stylist to thank. The boy I grew up with would give more thought to which type of pen he used to write a grocery list than what he looked like on any given day.

Fondness clutches me.

I make my way to him, trying to breathe through the hum of electricity surging in my bloodstream. Maybe it’s the benefit of having had time to get ready tonight—and that I’m not in my scrubs—but this time, I feel the way his eyes move from my hair to my shoes and back up.

He’s visibly shaken when I step closer and stretch to give him a quick hug. “Hi.”

Swallowing, he lets out a strangled “Hi” and then pulls my chair out for me. “Your hair is . . . you look . . . beautiful.”

“Thanks. Happy birthday, Elliot.”

Friends. Not a date, I repeat, like a prayer. I’m just here to make up for breakfast, and to clear the air.

I attempt to brand it into my brain and my heart.

“Thank you.” Elliot clears his throat, smiling without teeth, eyes tight. And really: where to start?

The waiter pours water into my glass and slides my napkin onto my lap for me. The entire time, Elliot is staring down at me as if I’ve come back from the grave. Is that what it feels like for him? At what point would he have given up on getting in touch with me, or would the answer be never?

“How was work today?” he asks, starting somewhere safe.

“It was busy.”

He nods, sipping his water and then putting it down, letting his fingers trace drops of condensation as they flow from the lip to the base. “You’re in pediatrics.”