“You know, I’m friends with the music director,” he says, clearing his throat, “on the show.”

I pull my sleeve over my hand. It’s easier that way. It’s not like I want to talk about it.

He closes the jewel case and looks at my picture, the one Cole took on the beach in Asbury Park, then he looks back at me, like he’s seeing if it all adds up. “I’ll slip this to him and see if we can get it on the show.”

I hate the idea of my songs scoring a fight between a woman who has come back from the dead and her lover (who’s really the evil twin of the man she thinks he is), but I could use the money.

“Take another one then.” I dig through my purse and hand him a second CD. “You should have one too.”

The waiter comes around and asks if we’re ready. I haven’t even opened my menu. “I always get the same thing here,” Matty says, smiling, big and crooked, like he used to. He orders a sandwich called The Bowery Basil.

“I’ll have that too,” I say to keep things simple.

“It’s so good to see a real person.” He stares at me with a warm kind of wonder, like the fact that I left him has been forgotten.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s good to see you.”

His eyes rest on my nose and stay there even after I lower my head, trying to make eye contact again.

“When’d you get this?” He taps my nose with his index finger.

“Right after—” I breathe in through my nostrils and feel the post of the tiny silver stud touch my septum. “Right after I left,” I say. My napkin is still wrapped around the utensils. I unroll it, place it in my lap.

I have this picture in my head of Matty coming home from school, sitting on the sagging yellow plaid couch in the living room, re-reading the letter I left on his pillow. I can picture it so clearly even though I wasn’t there. Afternoon sunlight through the brown slatted blinds making lines on his face and the wood-paneled walls. He reads it and puts his head in his hands, and in my mind he stays just like that. He never gets up. He never moves. He never moves on. He doesn’t get discovered in the mall on a trip to Minnesota to visit his aunt. He doesn’t win a Daytime Emmy. He’s not one of the most beautiful people. He’s just Matty and he keeps his head in his hands, the promise ring he gave me hooked on his little finger. He stays on that couch. Waiting for me to come back for him.

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking up at Matthew.