I stall on the way home, not wanting to seem too eager. I stop for a few groceries and get caught up talking to Trina, who works the register most Fridays and who was hilariously insistent about showing me the infection she’s got from her belly button ring. On my walk home I bump into one of my clients who’s coming out of her Zumba class, and when I compliment her on her extremely fashionable exercise outfit, she is thrilled to give me a coupon code for a friends and family event at her favorite athleisure store. When I’m finally on my street, I see my neighbor Artem crouched outside the front door with his young daughter, valiantly attempting to draw a unicorn for her with sidewalk chalk. The head resembles a thigh with a dagger sticking out of it, so I am professionally obligated to take over, fixing it up and drawing his daughter’s name so it curves over the unicorn’s back, all the way down its windswept tail. She claps and hugs my knees, and Artem gives me a grateful smile, and for the first time in a while I feel as if I’ve had a good hour of my own brand of .

Upstairs I carefully unpack my groceries, not giving in to the petty temptation I have to put a few of my things on Sibby’s side. I make my notes for the job with Lark, catch up with a few social media comments, sort a giveaway for a new set of notebooks.

Then I take out the envelope and set the photograph Reid sent me on the center of my bed. I sit on my desk chair, put my feet up on the mattress, and take a deep breath.

He answers on the first ring. His hello is exactly as I’d expect it. It’s a declarative rather than an inquisitive hello.

Hello, period.

“Hi. I got the photograph.”

“Good,” he says. “I’ll thank my guy.” The messenger, I guess he means. I wonder what people who work for Reid think of him. Probably they think a lot of wrong things, like that he’s never, ever nervous.

“Thank you. For the photograph, and for the letter.”

There’s a couple of seconds of silence, and I wonder if he’ll repeat the apology, say it out loud, too. The thought is so jarring that I reach a hand beside me, absently feeling for the cord of my headphones. If he says it when I have the phone pressed right up against my ear—I don’t know. It feels too close.

He only says, “You’re welcome.”

But I still put in the headphones, set my phone on the desk so I don’t stare at the shape of his name on my screen.

“So. You went to the library.”