“It’s an iPad, basically like your phone but a little bigger, and it can do a bit more. It came out around the t . . . t-ime when, um”—he clears his throat—“when you were p . . . p-regnant.”

I’m nodding because, yes, I remember this part. “With your baby,” I say.

He nods. “Right.”

“And I’ve already told you,” I read from the note card.

He looks proud of himself, and it makes me smile. “Yes.”

He opens a program on the device that looks like a piece of notebook paper. “There’s a program on here, really similar to your n . . . n-otebooks, except you can organize it into categories that you can sort and search. You can even color code it the same w . . . w-ay. Here, see?” He taps a line that reads Vance’s Memorial Service, and up pops an entire screen full of notes—typed, not handwritten.

My forehead wrinkles. “How do I know if I wrote this?”

“You didn’t. I t . . . t-ook these notes for you. I w . . . w-anted you to be able to take everything in. These are for you to read now and whenever you . . . like.”

I bite my lip, touched and confused and fighting a reflex to pick up my notebook and transfer everything from the screen onto paper. But I don’t, because I couldn’t bear to ruin the hopeful look on his face. Instead, I say, “Thank you.” I didn’t use much technology when it was available to me in college, much preferring the old-school methods of paper planner, pens, and pencils. But I take a sticky note, write Tate gave this to you, it’s like a notebook and a phone, and stick it to the screen.

Tate stands, holds out his hand. “Come on.”

I hesitate. “Where?”

“Ruth made dinner and invited us over.”

I check my phone and the dry-erase board on my desk. “But it’s not on the calendar.”

Tate laughs and it’s a hearty, welcome sound that vibrates through my body. “I know, but it’s already done, and she’s w . . . w-aiting for us.”

I touch my hair. “Us?” Feeling every bit the blushing teenager.

He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. “Yes, and we’re not in trouble or anything.”

I smile, enjoy the warmth of his hand clasped over mine. “That must be a first,” I say.

We’re both laughing when Ruth opens her door, and she gives us each a look that takes me back to the time she discovered us smoking cigarettes in the laundry room. She’s wearing an apron with a pink ruffled hem, like a tutu. The splash of color is an odd choice for Ruth, who has favored the more somber hues of brown and gray ever since her husband went through the tunnel and never came back.

I point to the floaty layers of pink tulle. “What’s with the apron, Ruth?”