step closer to the building. “Tell me something good.” But it didn’t seem like this happened—his face fell a second later, and he mostly just nodded and said variations of okay and sure until he hung up.
“I take it he’s not back?”
“No,” Cary said. “They finally got the car to a garage near Allentown, but now, of course, the garage is closed.”
“So they’re living there in Allentown?” I kept my face very straight, and Cary shook his head.
“You did not just say that.”
I laughed. “What?” I took a breath, about to tell him all about Stevie’s dad and his Billy Joel obsession and Stevie always putting his songs on her mixes, but I stopped myself—then realized what I was doing. I wasn’t even going to share stories about Stevie anymore? How had this all fallen apart so fast? My anger was ebbing away, and now it was just making me sad.
“I think the Allentown of it all means my uncle isn’t going to be back tonight to let Stevie in,” Cary said, his brows furrowing.
“I bet she got a key from her stepbrother,” I said. “I’m sure it’s fine.” We started walking down the street again, falling into step together. “It’s nice that you can live with him. Your uncle, I mean.” When I was a kid, all I had wanted was to live with my aunt Linda on her ranch in Jackson Hole, with horses and dogs. It had always seemed like the perfect arrangement—there would still be an adult, but one who wouldn’t be as strict as your parents. Plus all the dogs.
Cary nodded and dropped his phone into his pocket. “It is,” he said, speaking a little more slowly than usual, like he didn’t like what he was about to say and wanted to delay it as long as possible. “My mom took off when I was little, and my dad died three years ago. So I moved here from Pittsburgh to live with them. They really stepped up.”
“Oh my god,” I said, my heart somewhere in my throat. A moment later, I shook my head at myself, angrily, since this was not the correct response. “I mean, I’m so sorry, Cary. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He gave me a sad smile. “Thanks, Kat.” He stopped, slung his messenger bag around, pulled out his black sketchbook, and started flipping through the pages. “He had a heart attack on a job—he was a mover—and it was quick, at least. No pain or anything.” He stopped flipping and turned the sketchbook toward me.
On the page was a drawing of a man. Just from this one picture, I could immediately see how talented Cary was. The drawing was in a cartoon style—but there was so much personality coming through that it seemed almost photo-real. The man looked like Cary, but older, and with a mustache. He was laughing, his head thrown back, one fist pounding on the table. “That’s my dad,” Cary said, smiling at the picture. “How I like to remember him.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat. “It’s really lovely,” I said, my voice coming out crackly.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. He looked at the drawing for just a moment longer, then closed the sketchbook, and after a moment, we started walking down the street again. Cary looked down at his phone, like he was checking the time, and I realized as long as we were okay on time, I didn’t want to know just how much time was left. I wanted to keep hitting the snooze button on tonight, extending our night together. “Is Stevie going to meet you at the play?”
I shook my head, but just for a second, I let myself see the Sliding Doors version of tonight—the way I’d imagined it would be. The two of us, bashing around New York together, eating giant slices of pizza you had to fold, taking selfies with an unbroken phone. Watching Mr. Campbell’s show sitting next to each other, then getting to talk about it afterward at Josephine’s, going over all our favorite moments as we kept an eye out for celebrities so we could tell Teri.
But if I’d had that version of tonight with Stevie, I wouldn’t have had this version with Cary. And if I was going to keep all of this—the bodega and the scooter rides and the penthouse poker games—I had to give something up to get it. And for reasons I didn’t even understand, Dara Chapman suddenly flashed