“What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?” His tone is casual.

“I’m a physician,” I reply.

“What kind?”

“Surgeon,” I say.

The long-haired woman, his wife or girlfriend, promptly joins our conversation.

“I hope you enjoyed the talk,” she says to me, cheerily.

“Selena, this is . . .” Clay looks at me to fill in the blank.

“Aryana,” I say. “And I’m very much looking forward to reading this. Good meeting both of you.”

I stuff my receipt into my bag.

“Did you want him to sign your copy?” Selena asks. “You don’t mind, do you, Clay?”

Since it would be awfully rude to decline the offer, I turn around. Clay pulls a pen out of his bag and takes the book from my hands. He flips it open and scribbles something on the title page.

“Did I hear you say you’re a surgeon? I love that!” Selena says. She has Audrey Hepburn eyes, coquettish and warm. “My father was in a car accident three months ago. He woke up and found out a woman surgeon had stitched his liver back together. He’s such a chauvinist that he actually asked if a male surgeon could redo it. That woman saved his life.”

“I’m glad he did well,” I say. I’ve met men like her father. I’ve also met quite a few women like her father. Turns out sexism doesn’t discriminate.

Clay closes the cover and returns the book to me.

“Very good to meet you, Doc,” he says.

As I push the door open, I hear Selena suggest a sushi restaurant to Clay. I hit the sidewalk and look for Adam. He is walking toward the corner, his phone pressed to his ear. He pivots on one heel and walks back toward me, and I can hear his conversation as he nears me.

“Not even close, bro. You need to bring me ten people and at least one corner-office big dog. Anyway, I gotta run. Yep, later,” he says and ends the call.

“Sending Gavin your Christmas wish list?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“The fundraiser’s next week. And he owes me one anyway,” he says, then suggests we go to the diner on the next block. He asks me when Mom’s coming into town, although I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten. We’ve both been tiptoeing around each other since our last night together, as if we’re afraid to wake a sleeping argument. “Look, Aryana, I’ve been thinking. A lot actually.”

I stop walking. His words are like a trumpet sounding before an announcement. Adam stands with his back to a nail salon. Hanging in the window is a poster of ten toes airbrushed into perfection, a red rose laid across the feet. It’s such a saccharine backdrop that I almost ask if we can stand somewhere else.