Tracey sighs, clearly not wanting to be the one to break this news to me. But I’m glad she is; I’m glad I can count on her to give me the full story.

“He says someone stole his watch,” Tracey says. “He can’t find it anywhere.”

“And do you think someone really stole it?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

She shakes her head. “If you want to file a report, you can, but you know the drill. We’d have to involve the authorities, and—”

I hold up a hand. “No. I’ll go talk to him. Thanks, Tracey.”

I try to give her a look that says, I value your friendship and appreciate you breaking this to me gently but also, man, this really sucks.

I’m grateful for my friendship with Tracey, because here’s the thing: sure, we didn’t date for long, but we transitioned fairly seamlessly from “two people who might make out at any moment” to “two people who talk about feelings and get lunch sometimes and call each other for emotional support.” I mean, I was there when she married her wife last year. But I’ve never—never—stayed friends with any man I’ve hooked up with. A week ago, a guy who took me out on two uneventful dates two years ago walked into the coffee shop, saw me, and turned right back around, and left.

I resent that, because I’m a wonderful friend. Attentive, loyal, helpful, ready to drop everything and get pizza at a moment’s notice if you need to have a lengthy, emotional chat over a slice of pepperoni. But apparently dudes can’t realize that . . . which is, of course, yet another reason I only date people who aren’t involved in my personal life. I can’t assume I’m going to meet another amazing friend like Tracey.

The TV blares through my dad’s shut door. I knock three times, right on the name tag. Daniel Sanderson.

When he doesn’t answer, I slowly push the door open. “Dad?”

There’s no telling what I’ll find when I open his door. I’m not expecting full-scale catastrophe, of course, because the entire reason he’s here at Brookwood is so a team of nurses and other trained professionals can care for him around the clock. But I don’t know what his mood will be, how agitated he’ll get, until I see him.

Bracing for the worst, I find him sitting in his recliner, remote in hand. He looks up.

“Hi, sweetheart!” His smile is so big it just about breaks my heart, because it’s him. There he is. This is a good day, or at least a good moment.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, leaning over to give him a hug. “How’s it going?”

He gestures toward the TV, which is playing a rerun of Three’s Company. He can’t recall what he had for breakfast or whether I called him this morning, but he definitely remembers how much he loves Three’s Company.

“Catching up on TV. You ever see this show?”