Deepa had done the same for her, all those months ago, when Nora had decided to come back to Chicago for good. She’d never missed a beat: helped Nora pack the things she was taking, helped her sell what she wasn’t, helped her plan what to say to Austin about telework. Made promises about staying in touch that she’d always, always kept, even though the truth was, Dee’s friend circle had always been much bigger than Nora’s.

“I know,” Dee said, tapping the side of her glass with one polished nail. “I’d miss you, of course. But I miss you now, and we handle it.”

Nora smiled. “I miss you, too. Thank goodness for these cameras, huh?” She uncrossed her arms, picking up her glass again and raising it to Dee, to technology, to their long-distance friendship.

Dee toasted her back, then smiled wickedly. “Now tell me real quick before he gets there. What do you trade a man for putting a new light in your bathroom?”

“Please tell me I can have more of this.”

Will and Nora sat at two ends of the old couch, his faded jeans and worn blue-gray T-shirt a hilariously monochrome contrast to the loud floral pattern of the upholstery. In his hands he held the empty, shallow bowl that had, only moments ago, been pretty full up with the pasta Nora had made, a promise from that night on the beach that she was overdue in fulfilling. She hadn’t quite planned to serve it fresh—she’d thought it would be too late for a meal, that Will would want to take it with him when he left. But only seconds after she’d opened the door to him, he’d turned his head toward the kitchen, his eyes going adorably wide.

“Is that your sauce?” he’d said, abandoning the box with the new light fixture right there on the floor of the entryway.

“At this time of night?” Nora teased now, clucking her tongue. “You’ll get indigestion.” That sounded exactly like something Nonna would say, and Nora felt her heart squeeze happily at the memory, the echo. The way she kept Nonna alive.

Will dropped his head back, making a funny, frustrated hmph noise, and Nora admired the line of his throat, the ridge of his Adam’s apple. The desire she felt stir within her was both familiar and different—no less intense, but somehow less insistent. Maybe it was the change to their routine—their project not yet started, their interlude postponed. Maybe it was the glass of wine she’d had, always likely to make her a little sleepy.