“I don’t see why you’d want me involved. I don’t know anything about letters.”

“Because you’re a numbers guy.” A statement, not a question, and he doesn’t respond other than with another polite tip of his head. It’s as much an agreement as it is an invitation for me to continue, to well and truly explain myself.

But I’m not sure if I can do that. I’m not sure if I can be as honest, as direct as he was. I found your card, and it felt like a sign.

So I shrug casually, as if I do this kind of thing all the time. “Last time we talked, you said you hated this city. And it seemed to me I could h—”

He stiffens. That’s saying something, because he is a stiff guy in general. “You feel sorry for me.” His tone is sharp.

“What? No!” I think fleetingly of opening my bag to show him the pretzels and Target receipts. Do I look like a person who would feel sorry for you? I would say.

“Because I am not . . . I am not brokenhearted. About Avery.”

That tiny point of clarification. God.

“I wanted some company,” I blurt, and that, I realize, is what I should’ve said from the beginning. It isn’t the whole truth, but it’s certainly part of it. I do want some company, and Reid—the only man in this city, in this world, who knows my secret—might, oddly enough, be the right man for the job.

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he stands, tucking his hands in his jacket pockets and turning back to me. From anyone else, I’d read this as a dick move, a way for someone to literally talk down to me. But Reid’s face is contemplative, his posture looser. I think he simply needed to move, even that small amount.

“Someone did tell me recently I ought to try keeping my mind occupied.”

I know he wouldn’t appreciate it, but I definitely feel sorry for him now. This feeling intensifies when Reid takes one hand from his pocket and tugs at the sleeves of his jacket—a small, unconscious gesture that spells out a whole page of feeling to me. His discomfort. His disorientation at this whole entire prospect.

“Well, you see?” My voice is so . . . buoyant. “It could be a great idea. Even if it’s awful, your mind will be occupied with how awful it is.” I smile up at him, and he swoonshes at me fleetingly. Then it’s quiet again, Reid looking down at the gray pavers while I wait, notebook clutched in my hands.

“It’s a y instead of an e?” he says, finally.

I blink up at him, and it takes me a second to catch up. Make It Happyn, of course.

“Yes.”