“I’ve spent so much time worrying about the big choices—Jack, my career, all the dramatic crossroads stuff—that I forgot about the quiet ones. The choice to call your best friend back. The choice to show up for brunch. The choice to sayyou matter to mebefore it’s too late.”
I looked at her across our tuna melts. “I don’t want to be someone who figures that out when it’s too late.”
Diane’s eyes were suspiciously bright. She blinked hard, twice, and then reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“You’re really freaking me out. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Like, should I be concerned? Is this a cry for help? Are you dying?”
“I’m not dying. I’m just trying to be less terrible at the things that matter.”
“Well.” She squeezed my hand again, harder. “For what it’s worth, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had too. Even when you’re being a pain in the ass. Which is most of the time.”
“Most of the time.”
“Solid ninety percent.”
“That feels high.”
“It’s accurate.” But she was smiling, the real smile, the one that saidI love you and I’m not going anywhere.
“Now eat your sandwich before it gets cold. I have a meeting at two and I refuse to be emotional in front of my coworkers.”
We finished our sandwiches and walked back to our respective offices through the cold, arm in arm, and I thought about how different this was from my first time through 1987. The first time, I’d kept Diane at arm’s length, close enough to call a friend, distant enough that she never really knew me. I’ddone that with everyone, back then. Built walls and called them boundaries. Pushed people away before they could leave first.
This time, I was letting her in. Letting Jack in. Letting myself be known, even when it terrified me.
That’s the real change,I realized.Not the timeline. Not the magic. Me.
The afternoon was a blur of paperwork and phone calls and the particular tedium of an editorial assistant’s life. I tried to focus on the slush pile, but my mind kept wandering—to Jack, to Patricia, to the dreams that had been haunting my sleep. And to that manuscript. Chester and his cat and his list. I kept thinking about the dual voices—Louie watching from outside with that animal patience, Chester narrating from within, trying to organize his grief the way he’d once organized library shelves. Eleanor’s reading chair still holding the shape of her. The routines that were all he had left, the scaffolding that kept everything from collapsing. And that cat, sitting on the list, washing his paw, refusing to leave.
At 4 PM, I pulled out my notebook and wrote down everything I could still remember, desperate to preserve what was left:
Emma Owens. Sarah’s daughter. Harvard. Pre-med. Pediatric oncology. Red Sox cap in the hospital. Charlotte’s Web. She called me Aunt Mags. She asked me to keep showing up. I promised.
A whole person reduced to bullet points. But it was something—evidence that she’d existed, that I’d loved her, that the promise I’d made in that hospital room had once been the most important thing in my life.
The phone rang. I grabbed it on the second ring.
“Harrison & Webb, this is Maggie.”
“Maggie.” Jack’s voice, breathless and bright. “They want me.”
“What?”
“The Times. I just got out of the interview—they want me. They want to offer me a position.” He was talking fast, the words tumbling over each other. “Investigative reporter, city desk to start, but with room to grow. They want me to come back tomorrow for more meetings, talk specifics.”
“Jack.” I gripped the phone tighter. “That’s incredible. That’s?—”
“I know. I can’t believe it. I keep waiting for someone to tell me it’s a joke.”
“It’s not a joke. You earned this.”
“I haven’t said yes yet.” His voice shifted, became more careful. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Me?”
