“Yes.”

“And did you know as soon as you started med school that you wanted to work in that?”

I shrug. “Pretty much.”

An exasperated smile quirks his mouth. “Give a little, Mace.”

This makes me laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be weird.” After a deep inhale and long, shaking exhale, I admit, “I guess I’m nervous.”

Not that it’s a date.

I mean, of course it isn’t. I told Sean I was meeting an old friend for dinner tonight, and promised myself I would give him the whole story when I got home—which I still intend to do. But he was preoccupied with setting up his new TV and didn’t really seem to notice when I stepped out, anyway.

“I’m nervous, too,” Elliot says.

“It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” he says, “but I’m glad you called. Or texted, rather.”

“You replied so quickly,” I say, thinking of his old flip-phone again. “I wasn’t prepared for that.”

He beams with mock pride. “I have an iPhone now.”

“Let me guess: Nick Jr.’s hand-me-down?”

Elliot scowls. “As if.” He takes another sip of water and adds, “I mean, Andreas updates his phone way more often.”

Our laughter dies down but the eye contact remains. “Well, in case you were wondering,” I say, “the score is even at one–one. Liz gave me your number. Though I probably should have remembered it. It’s the same one you always had.”

He nods and my eyes flicker down reflexively when he lick-bites his bottom lip. “Liz is great.”

“I can tell,” I say. “I like her.” Clearing my throat, I add quietly, “Speaking of . . . sorry about how I left at breakfast.”

“I get it,” he answers quickly. “It’s a lot to process.”

It’s almost laughable; an ocean of information separates us, and there are an infinite number of places to begin. Start at the beginning and work forward. Start now, and work backward. Jump in somewhere in the middle.

“I honestly don’t even know where to begin,” I admit.

“Maybe,” he says hesitantly, “maybe we check out the menu, order some wine, and then catch up? You know, like people do over dinner?”

I nod, relieved that he seems as mentally sturdy as ever, and lift the menu to scan it, but it feels like the words on the page are trumped by all the questions in my head.

Where does he live in Berkeley?

What is his novel about?

What about him has changed? What stayed the same?

But the petty, traitorous thought that lurks in the guilty shadows of my brain is the bravery it took him to end a relationship after seeing me for less than two minutes. I mean, unless it wasn’t very established.

Or was already on its way out.

Is this the worst place to start? Am I a complete maniac? I mean, at the very least it was the last real thing we talked about yesterday, right?

“Is everything okay with . . . with . . . ?” I ask, wincing.