I also thought about Elodie’s friend, how he wore pants throughout his treatment and how the amount of tension he held in his body wasn’t healthy for such a young guy. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. If that. He had a baby face, smooth skin, and a sharp jaw.

My last client of the day was a walk-in who left me a big tip for a thirty-minute prenatal massage. Her belly was full and she seemed so tired. I almost asked her if she was okay, but I didn’t want to be rude so I kept my mouth shut.

I walked by Elodie’s room again. The door was closed, and for a second I even imagined that her soldier friend might be in the room with her. My imagination sure was out of control. Before the end of my shift, I helped Mali restock the back room and the towel warmers, and I folded the laundry. I wasn’t in a rush to leave, especially on so-called family dinner night.

When I finally left for the day, I took Mali’s delicious leftovers home with me. That whole thing about pregnant women eating for two might be an old wives’ tale, but Elodie was walking proof of its truth. I carried the food in one hand and tried to call my brother with the other. Voicemail after two rings. Asshole.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m calling to check on you. I haven’t heard from you in a few days. Call me back. I’m going to Dad’s for Tuesday dinner, as always. You suck for not being here, as always.”

I hung up and put my phone in my front pocket. Around me, the sky looked like the sun couldn’t decide to set or not, staying an orange color that made everything look a little nicer, a little softer. The parking spots in the alley were all taken. Bradley’s white truck was there—parked sideways across two spots—and the truck bed was so full of mattresses it reminded me of that fairy tale about the princess and the pea. He walked out the back door and tossed a pillow into the pile.

“Water’s back!” he shouted, waving his hand.

“Yeah . . .” I said, smiling. “Thanks for being on the water company!” I added.

Okay, that was awkward. I could feel it. Bradley didn’t seem to notice or overthink my words the way I did—he simply told me to have a good night, locked the door to his shop, and climbed inside his truck. I knew I would mull over my awkwardness all through the evening. My brain usually worked that way.