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The three dots appeared immediately. So he was up. Surprising. It struck me that, even after spending two hours together, I had no idea what he did for a living. Maybe he did something that didn’t start until later in the day, though I immediately pushed that idea aside, since he was in the café every morning. In the city. I told you.

I know in the city, I said, tapping each letter hard, like I might be able to communicate impatience through the screen. Where in the city? The city’s a big place.

Upper West Side. In the 80s near Riverside Park, he said. Is that specific enough for you?

They lived along the same train line as my parents, then, but an hour south. We probably wouldn’t run into each other, judging by simple proximity. What synagogue do they go to?

He messaged back a congregation I vaguely recognized, and googled to find it was Conservative. My parents were Reform and went to a Reform synagogue. So they probably didn’t have an overlap in their friend groups, because they would have found their friends and community through their synagogues and the local Jewish Community Centers.

It seemed like it would be safe. To go. If I wanted to.

I messaged him, Thanks. And then, because I was curious, What are you still doing up?

Big work project due tomorrow, he said back. I work best last minute. What are you still doing up?

Should I ask him what he did? No. He probably told me earlier and I forgot it, and he’d be insulted now if I asked. Obviously, I couldn’t tell him why I was actually up right now, either. It was easier—safer—not to share the parts of yourself that could hurt you. If my parents had taught me anything, it was that. Just finishing some stuff up for the café. Which, if I really was going to be beset by insomnia, I should probably actually do. No sense in just lying here wasting time when I could be doing something productive. The grind never stops.

At least you have good coffee to help you out, he replied. At this hour, I only have the swill I can brew myself.

Please tell me it’s not instant coffee.

I won’t tell you, then.

I wrinkled my nose. Café owner or not, I didn’t think of myself as a coffee snob. If mediocre coffee made you happy, then you do you. But instant coffee? That was a step too far. That was straight-up embarrassing, and I’d stand by that in a court of law, if anyone ever took me to court for blaspheming the terrible name of instant coffee. Wow. I can’t believe I let myself be seen with you in public.

Please don’t ban me from the café.

It’s tempting. My fingers went on without input from my brain, Don’t worry, I can hook you up with some good beans—

No. What? Backspace. What I said instead: I’ll go with you to New York. For the sake of the festival.

For the sake of the festival! he wrote back. Don’t worry. It’ll be fun.

I hoped he was right. My eyelids were finally getting heavy. I set my phone back on my nightstand, laid my head on my pillow, and fell off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

7

Of course, I woke up thinking, What have I done? I literally went back and reread my messages to confirm that I was remembering correctly and hadn’t nightmared up an agreement. But I had indeed committed. It was too late to back out, no matter how much I wanted to. And of course I wanted to. At least that’s what I told myself.

So the rest of the week passed in a blur of me trying to get everything done before I left and mostly failing. Maggie the retiree was indeed glad to come back on board for the week; she even still had her old keys, which was probably not a great thing security-wise, but it worked out well for me now. I stocked up enough coffee so that we wouldn’t run out—what was one more credit card extension?—and made sure my pastry deliveries were paid up. I left a ton of to-do lists, hoping that maybe she’d be a magical cleaning wizard and I’d return to the café looking better than how I left it.

Connor never came to my café, but, as if all the gods I didn’t believe in were laughing at me, I did run into him the night before I left. It was chilly outside, a few flakes of snow swirling through the pools of light on Main Street; I was running out quickly to restock some tampons for next month from the drugstore (many thanks to those same gods for allowing my period to end right before this trip so that I wouldn’t have to deal with it in Seth’s parents’ bathroom).

I had my coat and scarf pulled up to my nose, and I pulled them up higher as soon as I saw his distinctive shuffle, hoping that maybe he either wouldn’t notice me or would allow himself to pretend he hadn’t noticed me. “Hey, Abby,” he said with a grim smile. No such luck. “How’s it going?”

How’s it going? I wished he’d given us both the decency of a quick nod and fast walk in the opposite direction. “I’m actually going that way,” I said, pointing past him, even though the drugstore was in the same direction he was walking. I’d double back. I could use some exercise anyway. So what if I was already shivering? I wouldn’t freeze to death. “Getting ready for a trip tomorrow, so I don’t have much time to chat.”

The latter part of my sentence apparently didn’t penetrate his thick skull, since he said, “A trip? You?” Well, he didn’t have to sound so surprised about it. “Where are you going? Someplace warm, I hope.”

I took a deep breath. Seth and I hadn’t said anything about faking a relationship up here—it would be a lot harder around people we saw every day, who knew our relationship as one of sniping and withheld whipped cream—but we hadn’t discussed hiding our trip, either. “No. I’m actually going down to New York. The city.”

Connor’s eyebrows jumped up so high they disappeared beneath the brim of his hat. “The city? You?” He rubbed at his reddish beard. “To see…your parents?”

One of the reasons he’d called me a “closed-up, frigid bitch I barely even know” (to his credit, he did later apologize) is that I’d refused to ever tell him details about my parents. I mean, why did he have to know? It wasn’t like him knowing would change anything. All I’d ever tell him was that we didn’t talk anymore and it was for the best. He never gave up asking, though. “It’s not like I’m trying to get at some juicy gossip,” he’d say, trying to look me in the eye, even though I was obviously busy cooking dinner or reading a book or something, anything, else. “I’m your boyfriend. We live together. If you can’t tell me the things that hurt you, who can you tell?”

“No,” I told him both then and now. “I’m not going to see my parents. I’m actually going with a friend.”

“A friend? Who?”