“Don’t do that.”
One corner of his mouth moved.
“Did you have a terrible evening?”
“That is not the point.”
“I know.”
I stepped closer.
“You told me it was department representation.”
“It was.”
“You left out the part where somebody had assigned me a date.”
He set down his coffee.
The humor disappeared from his face.
“You’re right.
I should have told you.”
That answer took some of the fight out of me.
“Yes.
You should have.”
“I thought if I told you, you wouldn’t go.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“Exactly.”
I gave him a look.
He raised one hand.
“Still wrong.
I get it.
I won’t do it again.”
I started toward the lockers.
Behind me he called, “Was she nice?”
I turned around.
“You are one question away from me requesting a transfer.”
He laughed and went back to his coffee.
Three days passed before Cara texted.
Not because either of us was playing a game.
I learned later she had typed and deleted several messages.
I had done the same.
Eventually my phone buzzed while I was eating lunch at the station.
She asked whether the cat from my story had ever forgiven the rookie.
I stared at the message for a long time before answering.
I told her no, and that the cat had probably filed a formal complaint.
That was how it started.
Not with romance.
With small things.
A complaint about night shifts.
A picture of terrible vending-machine coffee.
A message after a difficult call asking, “You okay?”
Sometimes we talked about Ben and Jennifer.
Sometimes we deliberately did not.
A week after the gala, we met for breakfast after Cara finished an overnight shift.
Two weeks later, we walked along the harbor.
The first time Cara came to my apartment, she noticed Jennifer’s photograph immediately.
I almost apologized for having it out.
The instinct made me angry with myself.
Cara stepped closer to the shelf but did not touch the frame.
“Is that her?”
“Yeah.”
Jennifer was laughing in the photograph, head turned slightly away from the camera because she had hated posed pictures.
“She was beautiful,” Cara said.
“She was.”
