“Another time,” he says. “Hey, I like your sweatshirt.”

“Thanks,” I say. I forgot I was still wearing this. “Quick, let’s go before my mom sees you.”

“Would that be bad?”

“Ian!” I hear.

My mother.

“Ian, so good to see you. Oh, you brought flowers!” she says. “How thoughtful. Such a gentleman. And so tall!”

“Mom.”

“Hi, Ms. Morris.”

“Cyndi, please,” she says. “This is my husband, Guy.”

“Nice to meet you,” Guy says, giving Ian a firm handshake.

“Likewise.”

“We’re all just so thrilled the two of you finally got together. You’ll have to come by the house,” Mom says. “Or the four of us can all go out for dinner.”

“Would love to,” he says. “Looking forward to it.”

“You will live to regret that,” I tell him as we cross the parking lot. “So, do you mind if we stop at Scarlett’s for a sec so I can change?”

“Change? Why?” he asks, opening the car door for me. “I just told you how much I liked your ‘I’m a Grandpa!’ sweatshirt.”

“I know. I just think it might be too sexy.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but I would have to disagree.”

He takes me to Scarlett’s. I put the flowers in a vase and grab a change of clothes. Then he takes me back to his place. I shower. He feeds me a cheesesteak and then tucks me in.

“I missed you,” I tell him.

“I missed you, too.”

—

I sleep through the rest of the day, the night, the next morning. I wake a little after one o’clock, wait for Ian to get back from a lesson. He takes me out for a late lunch. We go to the diner. We used to come here as teenagers in big groups late at night, order disco fries and Happy Waitresses and drink black coffee. It feels like homecoming to be here. It’s nice.

“She didn’t even cry when she was born,” I say between bites of corned beef hash. “It was . . . I don’t even know how to describe it.”

“What song was playing?” he asks. “More Talking Heads?”

“Actually, no,” I say, thinking back. “It was ‘Do You Realize??’ by the Flaming Lips.”

“Damn. Great song,” he says. “What a way to come into the world. To the Flaming Lips.”

“Yeah,” I say. While we’re on the topic, I figure I should ask. “Do you want kids?”

He chokes a little midswallow. He reaches for his water. He takes a sip, then adjusts his glasses.

“Um,” he says, “I don’t know. You?”

“No. I don’t think it’s”—How the fuck do I phrase this?—“uh, conducive to my lifestyle. But I wasn’t sure if it was important to you. Having kids, I mean. If it was, I didn’t want to spring this on you at a later date.”

I feel my face go flush.

He looks at me for a moment, then starts to laugh.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me. Don’t be mean! You asked for communication.”