I search his face and realize there’s something more drawn about it tonight, the already-carved planes along his cheeks sharper than when I last saw him. As with his posture, his face probably looks perfect to the untrained eye—but I can tell the difference. I wonder if he’s been across the river all week, as blocked with his numbers as I’ve been with my letters, adding up sums that don’t make sense. Like me, he ended up at a bar with a drink in his hand, but unlike how it turned out for me, no one here—with the exception of Gretchen—looks even half as cool as Lachelle.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He seems to ignore the question. “I’ve never done that before, called in sick. I’m sure it’ll cause—” He breaks off, shakes his head, and starts over. “What you saw, in the park. I get the flares when I’m stressed.”

“Reid,” I say quickly, almost sharply. I’m curious—I’m so, so curious—but I suddenly feel as clear about how this night needs to go as I’ve ever felt about anything. Reid this way, not quite himself—this is no time to practice, because this isn’t a fair fight. I’ll settle the bill; I’ll get him a cab. I’ll insist he calls me tomorrow. “We can talk about this later.”

Reid starts to speak again, but I get an assist from Gretchen, who shows up with the bill. I’m reaching into my bag for my wallet but am surprised when I look up to find Reid holding out a credit card to her.

“I thought I paid,” he says, but it’s not accusatory. It’s . . . confused.

She slides my business card back across the bar to him, and for a good five seconds the three of us are frozen in an awkward tableau—me with my oversized wallet, some random receipt stuck in the zipper, Gretchen with her hands on her hips, her heavily lined eyes moving back and forth between these two proffered payments, Reid’s head tipped down, his gaze frozen on the business card.

Like it’s a sign.

“Oh,” he says finally, and it’s almost as if I can sense him sobering up. Realizing how his sort-of friend Meg showed up to the same bar as him on a random Friday night.

“Sorry, man,” Gretchen says, shrugging. She smiles as she plucks his card from his fingers. “Thought you needed an assist.”

Reid watches her go, and I watch the wash of pink spread across his cheeks.

“It’s fine!” I say, tucking my wallet back into my bag. “I was out, anyway.”

“Meg,” he says quietly, too quietly for the rising tide of noise all around us. “I’m sorry.”