On impulse, I reach a hand out, palm up, same as Lachelle. I look meaningfully at the planner Lark’s still holding against her chest. When she hands it over, I shove a hand in my bag, come up with one of the Microns littering the bottom. I flip open the cover, page to tomorrow’s spread. Call agent, I write, then hand it back to her.

“Great,” she says, in that sarcastic way she sometimes has. “My handwriting is going to look like garbage in here now.”

I snort a laugh, tucking my pen away.

“You’re a good friend, Meg,” she says. And then she reaches out her arm and pulls me into a hug.

For a second, my twinge becomes a full-fledged ache of sadness, thinking of Sibby—how we haven’t been such good friends to each other lately, and how much I still miss her.

But Lark’s hug is a comfort, a hope, like a lot of things I have in my life these days. I squeeze her back.

“Okay,” she says, when we pull away. “You’re going to meet your beau, yes?”

“Yes,” I say, my face heating. “He works late, so we’re going to have a quick dinner break.”

“Ugh,” Lark says genially. “You two.”

I smile, my face flushing, liking the sound of that particular number.

Hoping I can keep counting on it.

I meet Reid at South Street Seaport, the same place he once ducked away to find a set of letters to photograph for me to tell me about his day. This time of year, when the whole city is thick with tourists, it’s probably more crowded than it was on that long-ago evening. It’s been a gorgeous day, too—not too warm, a breeze off the water, and the sun is still out—so there’s probably a higher-than-average turnout of city dwellers here, too.

That long-ago evening and what Reid spelled out to me that night—TENSE—makes me expect to find him in the same state, especially given the crowds, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find that he’s not. When he finds me at our agreed-upon spot along one of the piers, he’s got his white shirtsleeves rolled up, his tie shoved messily in his pocket, and he leans down to give me a soft kiss on the mouth before pulling back and looking over my maxi dress.

“Cute,” he says, setting his forefinger to one of the tiny peaches patterned across it, but really he’s looking at the expanse of skin—my shoulders, my chest—revealed by its thin straps.