Within a few minutes my phone rings, and I can’t help but smile, knowing it’s him even without looking at the screen. I press the tab on my headphones, hoping my cheery “Hiya” chases away any of the lingering heaviness from our last conversation.

“So,” he says, and from that one syllable I realize that I’ve missed his voice. “You couldn’t find a question mark on a sign?”

My smile widens. It’s worth it. “Damn. You got me.”

There’s a small silence during which I hope Reid is smiling, too, though not at anyone in his immediate proximity, since I also realize that I’d feel more than a little jealous if someone else got to see the full force of a smile I caused. It can’t be good, some of these stray, soft things I feel about Reid, but it’s so good to feel something other than stressed or lonely or blocked.

“You’re out walking?” On the other end of the line, there’s suddenly more noise, as though Reid’s only now stepped out onto the street. It’s nice, thinking he might’ve called me while he was still inside his office building, wherever it is. Nice to think he might’ve been excited.

“Yeah. In Brooklyn, though.”

“Ah.” Does he sound—maybe disappointed? It’s hard to tell over the phone.

“I thought maybe if you’re walking home from work, maybe we could . . .” I trail off, stopped at a crosswalk. I don’t want these two people waiting beside me—even though they are definitely not even paying any attention to me—to be witnesses to my potential rejection.

“Walk together?”

I look beside me, at the two people who are still simply staring down at their phones. One of them is tapping a thumb frantically on tiny, fuzzy monsters that float and scramble across his screen, which seems to me to be a terrible game.

See? I want to say to both of them, feeling smug. It was a good idea that I reached out to him.

“Yes,” I say, starting to cross the street. “I mean, we need a game, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeats, and actually I think I can tell something over the phone. I think he might be enjoying this already.

I feel sheepish now, not having thought of an idea before I called him. Doing our names had been easy, obvious, safe. I could suggest something similarly bland—spell out your birthday month, or the name of your first pet. But that feels ludicrously like the beginnings of an identity theft scheme, and anyway, I find myself wanting to have a different kind of conversation with Reid.

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “One word to describe your day.”

I think the sound Reid makes is a groan, and it makes me break stride, hearing that noise from him. It’s so—unbuttoned.