Page 94 of Don't Tell

"Don't."

"I'm not asking about him."

"Okay."

"I'm asking what you are going to do today."

"Renée."

"Anything. Any small thing. You can paint. You can take a walk. You can put on real pants. Any of those would count."

"I have on real pants."

"Those are pajama pants."

"They have a button."

"They have a button on pajama pants."

I almost smile.

She catches the almost.

"Suz, the world is still happening. You can let it keep happening without going back to it. You cannot let it keep happening without you knowing what is in your inbox."

"My inbox?"

"You have not looked at your phone in three days. I have been watching."

"Renée."

"Bring me the laptop. We are going through it together. I will sit beside you. I will scroll. You can make any face you want at the screen."

She does not wait for me to argue.

She gets the laptop.

She sets it on the kitchen table between us and opens my mail. The number next to the inbox is a number I don't want to look at.

She scrolls.

Most of it is noise. Promotions. The photography newsletter I subscribed to in 2022 and have not read once. A reminder from the credit union that my monthly statement is available. A receipt from the pharmacy. A coupon for the kind of frozen dumplings I bought three months ago.

She scrolls.

She stops.

"Suz."

"What."

"This one."

I look.

The sender is a name I don't know — Iris Almeida. The subject line is "Your work — I would love to talk."

"Open it."