Unrolling the scroll, he tried to temper his first genuine smile of the night as he read a name he recognized at the top. He let his eyes scan over the not-too-many lines, let the audience wait it out for a second or two longer than was comfortable. He hoped he had Nora on the edge of her seat.

Then he stepped up to the microphone and cleared his throat.

“I’m Will,” he said, and maybe then he did smile. “And funnily enough, I got Shakespeare.”

“Nice going, Beanpole,” said Jonah, coming to stand beside Will in the back-row spot he’d returned to after his reading. Side by side like this, it was a bit like standing somewhere with Dr. Abraham, and for a second Will wasn’t sure where to look.

“You got a good voice for poetry.”

Okay, he’d look. Only to see if Jonah was making fun of him.

But the man seemed serious, and Will decided to take the compliment, since it tracked with what he’d heard from most of the guests since he’d finished. He got a loud round of snaps, a few backslaps from the standing gallery, and in between the various other readings he’d even had the chance to chat up a few of the guests, dropping in a couple of mentions of his short-term rental plans, in case any of them had Marian’s ear and could put in a good word for him. Nora had been steering well clear of him, but he was counting that a victory. He knew she’d thought he would bolt during this, thought it would scare him off his plans.

“Thanks,” Will said. “You did pretty good up there, too.”

“I’m an old pro at these things. Pretty sad one you got stuck with.”

Will blinked, confused. “What’s sad about it?”

The truth was, he didn’t really give much thought to what he’d been reading—he’d focused on getting through it, sounding calm and unbothered. He remembered stuff about spring and summer and the names of a whole bunch of flowers. Poetry shit: the usual.

Jonah made a noise of disapproval. “Doctors. Something wrong with the lot of you.”

Will shifted on his feet. What was that poem about? Oh well; it didn’t matter. He was pretty sure he’d put in enough of an appearance at this thing. Maybe he’d duck away soon, get back to work on Donny’s unit, definitely with the back door closed. He’d lost time, getting called in to the very short-staffed clinic today, but he planned on working at the apartment overnight tonight.

“Easy for you to say,” he countered to Jonah. “You got to read a poem about baseball.”

Jonah looked up at him. “You a fan?”