too sweaty. A traffic light stalled him. Half-block away. She lengthened her steps. Quarter block. Eighth. Sixteenth. Thirty-second. She grabbed his shoulder.

“Yes?” the man said. He must’ve been fifty, glassesless. “What is it?”

“Here.” She handed over her apron. “You dropped this.”

The Raw stitched on its pocket matched the one on her shirt.

“I think you’re mistaken.”

“I saw you drop it.”

The man stuffed the apron in the nearest trash bin. Julie walked to the park adjacent the Greyhound station. My bus had just let me off. She sat on a swing, rocking forward and backward, thinking that everything, the last year, was a waste. Was she any closer to Greg? Probably not. Theo? Not at all. She had made a fool of herself, searching. It was time to go home. Her parents would forgive her — hadn’t Kelly assured her of this? She stood up, planning to put in her notice at Raw, when I caught up to her, shamelessly winded, shouting, “Julie! Julie! It’s me!”

“Who’s me?” she asked.

I pulled off my glasses — the square-rimmed fakes I bought at the airport — and wiped the lenses. “It’s Greg,” I said. “Gregory Hayes.”

She backed up, crossed her arms, and considered me. The irony of fate, she thought, delivering that which she no longer wanted. Had she and Greg spent the past year in search of each other? Should she be angry? Elated? And could Greg, this Greg, help her find Theo? Her mind rewired itself, connections were severed — which explains why when she finally answered she didn’t jump into my arms or pound on my chest or even call me a fucker. No. She tilted her head to the left, suspicious, and staring at me muttered, “Who?”