It’s part compliment, part assignment, and Lachelle delivers it with the unbothered confidence of a person who has had a ton of practice being right about everything from your back pain to your window display to your deep-seated emotional damage. She looks quickly down at her watch and her eyes widen. “Shit,” she says. “I better go.”

I’m grateful for the small distractions of wrapping up the evening—both of us settling our bills, waving quick goodbyes to Cecelia and Shuhei. It gives me a few minutes to process what Lachelle has said, to consider what I have to do, to let myself feel a fragile hope.

When we get outside, Lachelle taps out a quick text message to Sean to let him know she’s on her way. Then she looks up at me again and says, “I think you should call him.”

That fragile hope dissipates. I may not have spent the last seven days planning to practice my confrontation skills with Reid, but I have made an effort to apologize.

“I tried,” I admit. “He sent it to voice mail. Three times.”

Lachelle winces, as though she’s picturing the same thing I have—Reid looking down at his phone, seeing my name pass across the screen. Pressing the button that reads DECLINE. Helvetica Neue. Cold as ice.

“What’d you say in your messages?”

I blink at her. “Nothing, since I’m under fifty and this is the twenty-first century. Who leaves messages?”

She laughs. “Fair. But I think you should try again.” She lifts a hand in acknowledgment of the Uber she called pulling up at the curb. “Maybe what’s wrong with him is that he likes voice mails.”

When she’s gone, I stand under the restaurant awning for a few seconds, my phone in my hand, wondering if nine thirty on a Friday night is too late to start practicing. I’ve got no doubt I’ll get sent to voice mail again, but this time, I have to listen all the way through his crisp, short message. I have to wait for the beep, I have to—

The phone I’m holding rings.

For a second I stare down at it as though it has some kind of magical power. Since I don’t recognize the number it’s probably a telemarketer, but I guess all my cruel imaginings related to hitting the decline button have warned me against doing the same.

“Hello?”

There is an unholy amount of noise on the other end. I have to move it away from my ear.

“Meg?” A woman’s voice shouts through the clamor. “Meg Mackworth?”

“Hi, yes, this is Meg.” I try to make my voice loud enough to compensate for wherever she must be. A shouting convention, by the sound of it.

“Hey, I’m Gretchen. I tend bar over at Swine? You know it?”