“That fucking smell.” I point to the ridiculous bouquet that’s been canopying our Keurig for over a week. “Get rid of that, will you please? It’s making me sick.”

Her lip quivers. Her feet don’t move. My ever-faithful Simone, usually so reliable, fails me now in my moment of need.

“Hey,” I say. “Please don’t go catatonic. Don’t you fall apart on me too.”

I open my arms, which immediately feels idiotic, but Simone doesn’t flinch at my gesture, as uncharacteristic and dumb as that may be. Instead, she leans against my chest and grips my shoulder blades, so I give her a halfhearted, fatherly hug in return—patting her back in cut time: there, there—but the way she falls into me is so helpless and committed that I relent and give her what she needs, which is to be comforted, and she transfers her need onto me so that when she finally peels away, I nearly ask her not to. I nearly beg her to keep holding me like I didn’t know I needed to be held, to keep her perfumed hair close to my nose, to continue comforting me.

“God,” she says, wiping her cheeks. “I’m so embarrassed. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be silly. This has been a very difficult time for everyone,” I say, gagging once again. “I’m just having problems with that smell right now.”

She hiccups back another round of tears, smiles, slouches and stares up at me, trying to say something.

“I’m fine, Simone. I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” she says. “It’s just—oh God, this is so embarrassing.”

“What is?”

“I sent them.”

“You sent what?” Of course, it clicks. “The flowers?”

She nods.

“Why on earth didn’t you tell me? They’re beautiful, Simone.”

“You called them strange.”

“They’re beautiful. I love the flowers. It’s the rotten water smell that’s giving me trouble. Can we—?” I jerk my head toward the hallway. She nods and follows to an open exam room, closing the door behind us. “Listen,” I say, “I’m so sorry to have hurt your feelings. The flowers are lovely. Seriously.”

She laughs, thank God. “Sorry I’m so emotional.”

“Don’t be sorry. You did something very nice and I’ve been too stressed out to notice, and now, well, this nightmare is turning my head upside down.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Don’t try.” I check the clock. “Feeling better?”

She nods.

“Ready to get back out there?”

She shrugs.

“Is something else going on?”

She shrugs again and this time adds a funny look: dropping her chin while maintaining eye contact. She’s pursing her lips, now biting the lower one, now fluttering her lashes. “I gave the flowers to you because I wanted to make you happy.”

No bearings. No clue. “Okay.”