The part of me who sat across a table from Lachelle and took her very good advice, the part of me that made certain I confronted Reid before I slept with him, the part of me that, not even a half hour ago, told Lark about my boundaries related to my work—that part of me is saying, Stay. Stay and work it out.

But that part of me is pretty new. That part of me doesn’t have enough practice for this.

So I do the thing that feels most necessary for escaping this awful, awful hurt.

I leave.

It’s too soon.

Too soon to show up unannounced.

Too soon to cry in front of him.

Too soon to tell him the reason why.

And yet.

I left my apartment with nothing but my big, sloppy bag and my big, sloppy feelings, and I took the same walk—well, in the other direction—Reid took two weeks ago, all the way across the soaring, spectacular Brooklyn Bridge. Somewhere along the way I’d noticed, with a distant sort of awareness, all the lettering scribbled along its various beams, graffitied proclamations of protest, of identity, of love. I’d thought, That should interest you, but still I’d turned my eyes down, watching my shoes pass determinedly, rhythmically, over the worn wooden planks.

Once I’d descended into the city, it’d been firmly in the middle of rush hour—Lower Manhattan in honking, people-swarming action, a busy anonymity that’d felt unusually welcome to me. It was hard not to walk straighter amid all that focus, all that determined hustle to get home after a pressured workweek, and so maybe that’s why I’d descended the subway steps at City Hall without stopping to consider the too soon-ness of what I was about to do.

It isn’t until I’m outside his building that the full force of what I’ve done, where I’ve come, hits me. I hold my phone as though it’s hot to the touch, switching it back and forth between my hands, uncertain. Text him and say I’m here? Text him but don’t say I’m here? Forget texting him altogether and walk away, walk off the rising threat of a sob that’s been swelling behind my sternum since Sibby spoke to me?

Before I have time to decide, though, he’s there, striding up the street in that perfect, upright way: dark suit, the jacket folded and draped neatly over his arm. Another white shirt, fitted slim, the top button undone, the sleeves buttoned at the wrists. Blue tie, loosened, pulling to the right from the strap of the bag crossing his body.

Face, face, face.

And as soon as I see him, my own crumples.