But as with the dreaded press inquiries, Reid had passed, opting instead for a couple of sections of Advanced Calculus at a community college. The pay is garbage and the grading so far seems endless, but Reid only ever says it’s a “valuable” learning experience. As near as I can tell, Reid is only being “tested” insofar as the following he’s developed—students who want to stay after class, playing more of the games Reid has designed for them, students who ask the kinds of questions that can only mean they’re interested, students who press him about whether he’ll be teaching any other classes in future semesters.

Still, at night, Reid comes home and prepares for another path, studying for his New York State teaching certification—hoping, eventually, to land in one of the STEM schools here in Brooklyn.

“I think maybe,” he’d said to me once, “I could be good with kids who love math. Or . . . or with kids who could learn to love it.”

I’d thought of that picture of Reid on his first day of school. That bubble-lettered chalkboard and that irrepressible smile. I’d told him I thought he could be good, too.

Now, I brush a patch of chalk dust from his sleeve, while he looks toward the back of the shop.

“Ah,” he says, smiling when he spots Sibby and Elijah, both of whom have grown to be close, trusted friends of Reid’s, especially after they’d shown him a lot of support in those initial, tumultuous months. “Did she like it?”

“She loved it.”

“Good.”

Since it’s been a couple of days since Reid and I have been able to connect at home—both of us busy with work—I hear that “Good” in all the wrong ways for a public venue, and I take a step back from him.

“I’ll go check on them one more time,” I say. “And then we can go.”

He catches my hand and pulls me back toward him.

“Now wait a minute,” he says, and I feel my skin flush. That was unmistakably bedroom voice.

“Reid,” I whisper sternly, but not all that seriously.

“I want to talk to you about what you left in my bag today,” he says. He lifts it from over his shoulder, sets it gingerly on one of the bare spaces of the display table.

My heart taps in anticipation, the same way it always does for these moments. These games we still play together.

From the front pouch he takes out a folded sheet of paper, uncreases it, and sets it on the table.

“This letter,” he says, pointing down to the words I wrote there this morning—all-lowercase cursive, long and looping swashes at the start of each word. “It’s a very nice invitation to dinner this evening.”