“Not long.” I won’t complain that I don’t have to wait on him. It’s actually sweet that he showed up early. He opens the door, and adds, “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I say, blushing like I’m twenty-one and standing with him in that convenience store all over again. I don’t regret the red dress.

Traffic isn’t bad, but we’re not getting anywhere fast either, so I beat around the bush, and ask, “Do you live in the city?”

A grin crosses his expression. “I do. I live in Tribeca.” I don’t know why this comes as such a shock, but it’s weird to think of him dwelling in the same town as me, yet we’re not together. Our lives felt so intertwined at one time that it feels unnatural not to know he lived here as well.

“Do you have a parking garage for your car? You seem to prefer to drive.”

“The building has a garage, and I have a reserved spot, a view of the city, and—”

“More than one room?”

His eyes stay on the road ahead. “Yes, more than one room.”

Taking the opportunity to look at him, really look at him, I see him in a new light. He’s handsome, too handsome to stare at for too long. I say, “I live in a studio near the hospital.”

“How’s that?”

“Good. Easy to maintain, which is good considering the number of hours I work.”

He nods, and then asks, “You work a lot?”

“I work a lot.”

He glances over. “How do you balance your social life with work?”

I start laughing. “I don’t. I traded a shift and went in this morning at four o’clock to be here with you thirteen hours later.”

He rests his arm between us, his hand so close but seemingly just out of reach. It feels wrong for some reason. Too far from me. “You didn’t have to do that, Lark. We can work around your schedule.”

I want to touch him, for him to touch me, to feel whole again.

“I wanted to.” I rest my arm next to his on the console. Casually . . . I’m thinking I’m not as slick as I thought because his gaze slides over our arms, lingering a few seconds, and then reaches my eyes.

Under the light of new information, I see him differently. The anger I clung to like a life preserver to save me, to give me something that made sense when he left, has disappeared overnight. “Thank you.”

Yale didn’t give me a scholarship. He did. Well, his parents, but he made the sacrifice. What did I do? I wallowed in the pain of my loss, not thinking he had any repercussions.

So much more makes sense now. The last time we were together, he shared so much with me about the tragedy of him and his cousin, the details I was always too afraid to ask because I wanted to avoid upsetting him. It brought up the pain of him leaving, not loving me enough to stay as well.