My slouchy bag bumps rhythmically against my upper thigh as I head down the street, and each time I think of my phone in there, about taking it out and sending a message to Reid. I’d been frustrated with Lark and her decision paralysis this afternoon, but had I done any different, working so hard to avoid thinking about Reid, about that almost confrontation? Had he left that coffee shop wondering whether I’d call him again? Has my laser focus on the Make It Happyn job these last few days been, in part, some version of staring down at a table of options, unwilling to make a decision about our . . . arrangement?

I’ve made my way down to Joe’s on Fifth without really thinking, unless “smelling pizza” is a form of thinking. Inside the narrow store—not quite busy with the dinner rush yet—I order a slice, then decide to take it back outside on its already limp paper plate. Reid would like this place, and this pizza. He would not like the paper plate, or the fact that I got only two napkins for what I’m sure is a four-napkin slice, but you can’t win them all, I guess.

I sit on the red wooden bench that’s been constructed around the tree outside of Joe’s and stare up at the crooked awning, the white vinyl sign above. Truthfully, there’s not much interesting to see here—maybe the little serifs on the sign stuck to the cooler in front, advertising some prepackaged Italian ices. But as I finish my last bite and wipe my fingers (two napkins were not enough), I make a decision.

It’d been uncomfortable, those last few minutes with Reid, the reminder of how we came together. It’d been uncomfortable to confront again, even in such a small way, what I’d done.

But so much of it, before that, had been the opposite of uncomfortable. It’d been easy to play those games with him. And it’d made it easier to draw for Make It Happyn. It’d made it easier with Lark today.

So maybe that discomfort—that risk of confrontation—is worth it.

I pitch my trash and snag another napkin, cleaning up more before I take my phone from my bag. Then I snap a few pictures, all from Joe’s storefront. The P from pizza, the L and the A from the Italian ice sign, the Y from the open 7 days. I wait until my phone’s clock turns from 4:59 to 5:00, and then I attach all four of the pictures in a message to Reid.

I type a single question mark, press send, and wait.