“I brought it up,” the man Will would never call Gerry said. “At the hospital. I mentioned his work hours and his attitude.”

Sally rolled her eyes. Will didn’t want to be responsible for any friction, so he said, “I have been working a lot. With . . . an attitude.”

Sally put down her own knife and fork and set her elbows on the table, a move Gerald tracked with his eyes and then seemed to—with effort—look away from.

“Is this about the woman from your building?”

Will thought he could feel Quincy and Francis staring at him. “How do you know that?”

“You probably forgot that you went after her like she was a house on fire that day you almost got caught in a public relations disaster!” She looked dreamily toward the chair beside Will. “That was the day I took home my babies.”

Will swallowed. “Right. No, I didn’t forget.”

“I knew you had a thing for her.”

At this, Gerald stood and collected plates, and Will had a feeling like he’d had the day Marian and Mrs. Salas had arrived with all their Tupperware. Sabotage, he thought, but this time, he supposed he didn’t really mind.

“I’ve got more than a thing for her,” he said, because the correction seemed important. “That’s the problem.”

Sally looked at him with eyes full of sympathy. “So it’s unrequited, then. No wonder you look this bad.”

He would’ve been insulted, but he’d seen himself. He did look bad. He needed a shave and a good night of sleep, and also probably a few more meals like the one he’d just eaten.

“I’m not sure it’s unrequited,” he said, which was an embarrassing thing to admit. But also he was sitting at a dining table next to two cats and getting a talking-to from his boss’s ex-wife, so.

“Well, what’s the problem, then?” She lowered her voice and smiled. “Does she criticize you for putting your elbows on the table?”

“Nothing like that.” He shifted in his seat. “I’m not—I don’t know that it’s a good idea, for me to get serious with someone.”

“You’re one of those, then. Commitment-phobic!” She threw up her hands. “I’ve met a bunch like you. When you turn forty and start losing your hair you’ll probably want to have a baby.”

Will resisted the urge to touch his hair.

“No, that’s not it.” Or at least it wasn’t that particular version of it, not the way Sally meant.

“It’s her or it’s no one,” he added, and as soon as it was out of his mouth he felt the truth of it, right in the aching center of his heart.

Sally had a look on her face like Mrs. Salas when he talked medicine. “So why isn’t it a good idea?”