at the subway station. I could easily make the argument to myself that I should listen to David’s voice mail when I get to Brooklyn. And I almost do. I very nearly do. But instead, I stand outside the stairwell and hit play. “Hey,” he says, his gravelly voice so familiar. “I texted you. But I didn’t hear back. I. . . I’m in New York. I’m home. I mean, I’m here at the apartment. Our apartment. Or . . . your apartment. Whatever. I’m here. Waiting for you. I know it’s short notice. But don’t you think we should talk about things? Don’t you think there’s more to say? I’m just rambling now, so I’m going to go. But hopefully I'll see you soon.” When the message is over, I run down the stairs, swipe my card, and slip onto the train just as it’s leaving. I pack myself into the crowded car and try to calm down as we roar through each stop. What the hell is he doing home? I get off the train and make my way to the street. I put my coat on when I hit the fresh air. Brooklyn feels colder than Manhattan tonight. I try not to run to my apartment. I try to remain calm, to remain composed. There is no need for you to rush, I tell myself. Besides, I don’t want to show up out of breath, and I really don’t want to ruin my hair. I head through the front entrance and up the stairs to my apartment. I slip my key into my door. And there he is. David. In my kitchen, cleaning dishes as if he lives here. “Hi,” I say, staring at him. He looks exactly the same. Blue eyes, thick lashes, cropped hair. He is wearing a maroon heathered T-shirt and dark gray jeans. When I met him, as we fell in love, I remember thinking that the fact that he was white made things easier because I knew he would never tell me I wasn’t black enough. I think of Evelyn the first time she heard her maid speaking Spanish. I remember thinking that the fact that he wasn’t that well read meant he would never think I was a bad writer. I think of Celia telling Evelyn she wasn’t a good actress.