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“Everyone all right?” Ferris says, seeming a bit dazed himself by all that just happened.

I take a step to the side, and he slides his hands away, putting them smoothly into his coat pockets.

“Fine,” I say and immediately feel like the halls really are as narrow as a cardboard box.

I can’t define it exactly, but I sense an overwhelming desire not to be standing here at this moment. But it’s not just because of Ferris, I’m realizing quietly. It’s not just about feeling dangerously close to exposure with the way my face and my hot, flushed cheeks are betraying me in this moment. My cheeks aren’t flaming merely because of the secret thoughts about Ferris I sometimes can’t help but harbor. It’s something else too. Will is a factor. And I realize I particularly don’t like that he is the one seeing me and my reaction to Ferris in this hallway. I care that he is in this situation and wish he hadn’t been the one to see it.

Why is that?

It’s not, I know deep in my soul, just because he is my boss.

A long, awkward moment passes. “Anyway . . . this is Will Pennington, our new publisher for Pennington Pen,” I say, holding out a hand as if I’m showcasing a new painting. “Will, this is . . .” For but a moment I find myself hesitating, stumbling to explain. This is the first time I’ve ever had to introduce him, I’m realizing suddenly, not as my boyfriend. “Ferris.” I amend this quickly with, “My sister’s fiancé.”

Will’s eyes give a subtle flash of surprise, and I can tell that he’s reassessing the situation under new light.

“Nice to meet you,” Ferris says automatically, as though he hadn’t caught any of that and didn’t care to. “Well, we should be off, then, Savvy. We’ve only got an hour.”

“‘Savvy’?” Will repeats, his brow crinkling. “Is that . . . your preferred name? Because I can—”

“No,” I say hastily, my voice almost cracking. “It’s just a family nickname. No need to start spreading that around.”

“Ah.” There’s the subtlest whisper of a smile on Will’s lips, and I know he has read through the lines. “I see. Well. You enjoy your lunch at . . .”

“The blood bank,” I reply.

“Ah,” Will repeats, the smile growing. “The blood bank. How nice.”

I can practically read through his response, hearing the words he edited out: “Yes, Savvy, you enjoy your date with your sister’s fiancé at the blood bank, because everything about this conversation makes complete sense.”

I feel Ferris’s hand on my waist again, making to nudge us along, but this time I don’t fall under the spell of his touch. Nor do I move on as he’s intending. I stay rooted.

“It’s a family thing,” I say swiftly. “My mom, dad, sister—we all make a date to donate every eight weeks. You know. Get in some quality time while we do something in the community.” I see by Will’s expression I’ve made very little ground and feel compelled to add in a lighthearted tone, “Some families make lunch dates together. The Cade family makes blood dates. Anyway, I’d better be going. I’ll be sure to get that report to you by six. And . . . I really do think Smith’s manuscript has real promise.”

“Yes, well, that’s your bailiwick, so we’ll be leaning on you,” Will replies. Although his tone is all business, I see a slight twitch to his lips.

I feel a blush starting to creep up my neck and loosen my scarf in hopes of concealing it. Before I can think of anything else to say, Will nods in the general direction of us both and turns on his heel.

It’s only halfway down the hall that Ferris mutters, “Bailiwick? Good grief, Savvy, what sort of pretentious prig uses bailiwick in conversation? No wonder these people stress you out.”

* * *

“Oh, and look at this one, dear. I know we’ve been thinking gold china all this time, but wouldn’t some decorative cream plates look so lovely with the peony centerpieces?”

I’m lying back in the farthest chair to the left of a long row, seeing my mother in my periphery trying to clumsily hand off her laptop full of Excel sheets to Olivia in the chair beside her. My eyes aren’t focused on them, though, but on the nurse standing over me, pressing her finger at the largest greenish-blue vein at the crook of my elbow. My hand balls up while my forearm prickles.

No matter how many times I give blood, I still have anxiety.

“Now remember, my veins are deceivingly small,” I blurt out, just as I do every single time I go to the blood clinic. “People always say they look good but then have to use a—”

“Butterfly needle. I know, dear.” The nurse with her hair pulled into a slick ponytail smiles at me as though she’s heard this a thousand times. Which, to be frank, may be the case. But even so, the memory of that one time it took three nurses three torturous attempts on each arm, and the continued phrase, “The vein’s going to blow . . . It’s going to blow . . . Oh no, it blew,” is too etched in my mind for me to ever forget.

The nurse pats my arm. “You’ll be just fine. Just keep giving the ball a squeeze every ten seconds, and I’ll be right back.”

I give the foamy red ball in my hand a big squeeze and start the clock in my head.

One . . . Two . . . Three . . .

Unlike for my mother, father, sister, and Ferris lounging in their chairs beside me, looking more like they are suntanning at the beach, giving blood has never been easy for me. My blood pressure is chronically low. Half the time I come here, the staff make me eat crackers and drink a Coke before I can even start, just in case. And my blood, when they can actually get it, so stubbornly refuses to come out of my body it always takes twice as long. Then, of course, there is the ever-present reminder of that one time I passed out afterward.