“But where are you going to live?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m at a gas station between New York and Connecticut, on my way to Hartford to stay with my mom for a few days. But now—”

“Now, you’ll find the exit to New York, then the one for JFK, and that’s that.”

I let out a sigh.

“I know you’re over-analyzing things right now because that’s who you are. But don’t. Just do it. It’s better than not knowing, right? Even if the answers you’ll get are not the ones you’re hoping for, at least you’ll get closure.”

I chuckle nervously. “I know you’re right. I guess I’m just anxious about meeting him and terrified of finding out he didn’t show up because he realized that day meant nothing.”

“Maya, he told the story to a guy who wrote a novel about it. I think that qualifies as meaning something. I have to get my hands on a copy. Or two; I want to read it too. I’ll try another editor, just in case. I hope they’ll send the PDF and not the actual book, but just in case, call me when you get to California and give me the hotel’s address, OK?”

“OK,” I say.

“Call me anyway or text me. I want to know how it goes.”

“I will.”

“Good luck. And stop worrying.”

Twenty-One

I call Janice, but in her usual style, she doesn’t even let me speak.

“I was about to dial your number. Do you have plans tomorrow morning?” she asks. “Andy is busy; I’m away for the weekend, Debbie is sick. I need you to go to Long Island.”

“I’m on my way to Hartford,” I say, hoping she will find someone else to ask.

“That’s fine. It’s not so far. Can’t you just drive over? It’s a one-hour thing. In and out.”

“I can’t, sorry, I have plans.”

“Maya, have we not talked about this before?”

I’m sure we have. Every time I needed to do something, I had to ask Janice for permission. Going to my mother’s birthday, a friend’s wedding, even sleeping in on a Sunday.

“I’ll email you the details,” she says.

“Wait, Janice—” I hesitate. “I can’t go to Long Island this weekend and that’s why I called. I need to take time off—a week or so. You see, David and I—”

“Who?”

“David. My boyfriend.”

Not like I mentioned his name a few hundred times in the last five years.

“We broke up and I can’t stay in New York because I don’t have an apartment.”

“Why are you telling me this? I’m not going to take you in,” she says and laughs.

“I just wanted you to know I’ll be staying with my mother in Hartford. I can’t drive to New York from there daily, so I need time off. Besides, I haven’t had a vacation in four years.”

“You can move wherever you please. If you want to make the one-hundred-plus-miles drive back and forth from Connecticut to New York each day, that’s fine with me.”