I still in place, wishing I could toss back a light reply immediately. But that small expression of care—that code of friendship that insists on these kinds of safety hatches—I feel a brief press of tears behind my eyes. It takes me a second to swallow them back before I look over my shoulder, smiling brightly.

“Oh, sure,” I lie. But I’m so grateful that I add, “The Promenade. Public place, and all that.”

“Have fun!” she calls back, but she and Cecelia already have their heads bent together, looking over the ink, a picture of the kind of comfortable friendship I don’t know if I’ll ever have again.

When I’m pushing out the door, Cecelia’s bright laugh rings out behind me, and I feel as alone as I have in months.

Swoosh, I hear as the door closes behind me.

In the end I make it a whole six minutes early.

It’s a busy walk down Montague—the sun’s out, the weather’s warm, and everyone’s got that slightly dazed “oh my God, it finally stopped raining” look about them. Instead of focusing on signs—almost as though I don’t want to jinx it before I talk to Reid—I focus on people. I pass the Häagen-Dazs and see a man staring down at his chocolate shake like he’s a groom at the end of the aisle and he’s just seen his bride walk through the doors. I see a kid joyfully swinging her mother’s hand while she licks at a cone, what’s probably thirty percent of the original serving spread across both her cheeks and down the front of her shirt. I see an older couple standing outside a café, both of them squinting at the menu that’s tacked up in the window, and the shorter man says, “They’ve got a club sandwich; you love a club sandwich!” as though a club sandwich is a really great surprise to come across and not a menu item you could find within five blocks of any place you’re standing.