When we were growing up, our house was full of art projects Amy had started and abandoned, lopsided pots and half-pieced quilts and tangles of jewelry beads. “An artist in search of a medium,” our father called her wryly.

I never wanted him to say that about me. I was his dinner table audience, the straight-A student, the daughter who loved reading, the son he never had. When Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows came out, he took me to the midnight release party at the bookstore. Not Beth, who was sick. Not Amy, though she begged and pouted to be allowed out past her bedtime. I’d grown up with Harry. I was wild to get my hands on the book. But the time with my father—just the two of us, alone—felt nearly as magical.

I shoved my hair into a ponytail and dragged a Windbreaker over my faded NYU sweatshirt. Hey, it wasn’t like I was getting ready for a date. My idea of dressing up was basically throwing on a clean T-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans anyway.

I laced up my running shoes. Dressed and done.

At the bodega, I bought two cups of coffee, one for me and one for Dan the Homeless Guy. I walked down the street, sipping the hot liquid, warming my hands on the cup. The city that never sleeps was stretching and stirring, the rattle of early-morning construction like the twitter of birds back home. My feet took me back to yesterday’s route, my body putting into motion a plan my mind hadn’t quite acknowledged yet.

Ten minutes to the High Line. Pitching my empty cup into the trash, I headed up the stairs, my heart pounding as if I’d already run a mile.

A wind whipped off the river. The tall grass bowed and swayed. As I ran, my gaze bounced from the bright horizon to the graffiti-splashed buildings rising along the track.

And . . . He was there. Chef. In almost the same spot as yesterday.

Warmth flooded my midsection, more potent than the coffee. My cheeks were hot with happiness. Stupid.

He leaned against the wall of the shelter, watching the water. Waiting? For me?

I gave him a little wave, like a dope. “I’m not stalking you.”

Laughter leaped into his eyes. “I am crushed,” he said politely. “It is my dream that you follow me everywhere.”

Ha. He’d made a joke. I thrust my hands into my pockets. “You’re up early this morning.”

Yesterday, I had almost finished my run and was on my way back before I saw him.

“Indeed. I have not been to bed.”

“Late night?” I asked sympathetically.

It happened. When you were jazzed after a successful service—or, God forbid, an unsuccessful one—after the kitchen was restored to gleaming order and the prep lists written up for the next day, it hardly seemed worthwhile to lie down for the few hours before you reported to work again. Chef didn’t go out with the rest of the kitchen crew at the end of the night, doing the rounds of late-night bars and hookups. But maybe he’d stayed behind, working in the office. Maybe he had a whole other social life I didn’t know anything about. Friends. A girlfriend.