The girl hops off on the tenth floor, and while the elevator rises, I smile when I read through my notes from the school today. The kids were fun, enthusiastic to be with me and for reading. On paper most of them seem to know me, particularly this one girl who was especially interested in my memory loss. I try to envision my time in the classroom, to stitch together even the thinnest threads into something vibrant and real. But my mind is a blank notebook, and I slump against the elevator wall. It’s pointless and the more I try, the more alone I feel in the effort.

When the elevator doors slide open, I walk out with my head down, reading and rereading about the kids, and I walk straight into something solid. “Oh!” I look up and nearly stumble backward, heart racing at the man in front of me, the familiar slope of his jaw, the silky blackness of his hair. My eyes open wide. Tate Dunn.

“Hi, Claire,” he says.

With my notebook pressed against my chest, I try to think of something to say that hides the jittery rush spreading through my legs.

“Hi,” is all I manage because the smell of him, the space he occupies, the breadth of his shoulders that I want to run my fingers across is something I know, and it’s overpowering.

His smile deepens the lines around his eyes in that pleasing way that happens when men grow older. Tiny bits of gray paint the fine hairs by his temple. I shift my weight, try to act nonchalant and not like some tongue-tied teenage girl while I furiously flip through my notebook. He’s acting comfortable and normal, not at all like this is the first time we’ve run into each other, which is exactly the feeling that warms my cheeks. I stop searching—there it is, and only yesterday too. Tate has moved back to Whittier, and I’ve told him about the baby. I nearly sigh with relief. He stands beside me, smiling at me the way he did when we were kids. The same smile that touched his eyes and deepened into something more when we were older. The smile that says I’m his most favorite person in the world.

I’m in overdrive, consumed with memory, trying to fully grasp the idea of the years that span between the last time we were together. Feeling the mixture of longing and sadness I had when I realized that we didn’t want the same things anymore, even if my skin felt tattooed with the warmth of his touch. He lived in Idaho with Maria, wanted nothing to do with Whittier or me. I almost snort. At least nothing more than a one-night stand.

“Do you n . . . n-eed to write anything down?” He searches his pockets, comes up with a pen. “Ruth says that’s w . . . w-hat you do to remember.”