“Want something? I’m going to go out and grab a sandwich.” Gavin shakes his head.

The streets are more crowded than when I left them. Young people in overalls and trendy shoes walk around with iced coffees. Bars and restaurants have opened their backyards, and through their dark interiors, I can see patrons slurping drinks in large groups, seated on wooden chairs, swaying to music.

As I wait in line at a popular bagel spot, I take my phone off airplane mode and see I’ve missed a few texts from Anneliese. They get more frantic with each message, wondering where I am, is everything okay? I call her after I place my order.

“Oh, I was so worried! Are you doing all right?” They call my name at the counter and I claim my brown bag.

“I’m totally fine. I’ve just been painting.” And though I don’t need to, I blurt out, “I’m sorry.” Because I hadn’t had the chance to say the same to my dad the night he died, after I’d missed all those phone calls.

“Oh I’m just a nervous Nellie. Where do you usually paint? I’d love to see what you’re working on.” I tell her about Gavin and the studio, raising the volume on my earbuds as I walk out to the din of traffic.

“You know you could always use my place! We have that large window in the master bedroom, Gabby’s room, that would give you lots of natural light.” I switch my phone to the other ear.

“I appreciate it, but the studio’s perfect for this kind of work. It’s very large, and there’s paint dried on every surface so I don’t have to worry about making a mess. And it has northern light, the best for painting.”

“Oh.” She sounds almost disappointed. “Well, I can’t compete with that.” There’s an underlying moroseness to her tone, a sour candy coated in sugar.

I brighten my voice. “What are you up to tonight?”

“Nothing much. I’m alone. The kids are at their dad’s, and Gabriella is God knows where.” I hear her fumble with something in the background, and I realize it’s the teakettle.

And I think of her all alone in that apartment on a Saturday night, still young enough to want to have a life outside the confines of her home. She’ll sit there, nursing her tea, maybe read a book, and then sink into sleep. And before she sleeps, she may start wallowing in pity, think about moving back home, away from the busy isolation of the city. Away from me. I remember her words, about how she doesn’t make friends easily, that she wants to start a new life here, maybe become a new, more buoyant self. And how much I want the same for myself.