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Back in New York, I start seeing a woman named Reagan once a week on Thursday mornings. At first, I’m skeptical about the fact that we’re the same age, and she appears to have been a sorority girl (because I know you’re not supposed to do a social media deep dive, but I absolutely had to), but it ends up being a good fit. We talk about my dad, high school, relationships. She cracks me open in ways I never could have done on my own.

I work on letting people in.

I invite my roommate, Aya, to coffee because in the year-plus that we’ve lived together, we’ve never hung out one-on-one. I learn she’s also a member of the Dead Dad Club, and from there, one coffee turns into a weekly Saturday afternoon ritual. She stops being so mysterious and starts leaving her bedroom door open when she’s home, an invitation for me and Luisa to stop in.

I try to be more transparent with Luisa. I let her take care of me when she wants to, and for my part, I attempt to keep our space a little tidier. I even send Rob a genuine apology. Granted, it’s over text because I don’t want to see him or rekindle anything, but at least it’s a step in the right direction, Reagan-approved.

I FaceTime with Mom and Kristine from their condo. I ask about Henry, but I’m always met with sad smiles. I want to scream at them about how hard I’m trying, how brutal therapy is when you actually put in the work, how I’d like to understand why I do what I fucking do too, but at least I’m finally dealing with it all.

And then, somehow, it’s spring, and New York is finally lovely. My company moves from Greenpoint to an office on the Upper East Side, and I find myself running more frequently through Central Park, glancing up at Henry’s building sometimes.

One day, in April, I walk past a Jewish deli on my warm-up to run in the park. They’re offering a “Pre-Chametz Special.” Almost Passover already? I think. Before Passover, you’re supposed to clean the house (or the restaurant, in this case) of chametz, anything that’s not kosher for the holiday—so no grains, no yeast, the list goes on. I look in the window and see a man behind the counter carrying out a tray of latkes to put in the display case. This must be part of the special. Potatoes are okay, but not flour, and God knows there is flour in latkes.

I think about my now-ruined flour-coated sweatshirt from that day I went to Henry’s house to borrow some oil, and I suddenly get the overwhelming need to see him. I feel it bubbling up in my chest, telling me I’m ready. That there’s still a lot of work to do, that I’ll continue doing, but I just know. It’s time.

I call Henry as fast as my fingers can find his contact info in my phone. It rings once, then goes right to voicemail. I immediately wonder if he blocked my number, like I blocked his all those years ago.

I fly inside the deli, purchase a half dozen latkes, and then, without any real thought about boundaries, and without worrying that maybe Reagan would not approve of this measure, I find my legs taking me right to Henry’s building. I recognize the doorman immediately from the night of our first date. His eyes narrow like he’s trying to place me.

“Don’t I know you?” he asks slowly.

“I’m a…friend of Henry Cole’s. 28-D.”

The doorman nods fondly at the mention of Henry’s name. “Of course. Of course. I miss that guy.”

“Miss him?” I ask.

“He’s been out of town for quite some time.” I feel my brow furrow, and the doorman’s eyes go wide. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Secret’s safe with me.” I give him a warm smile. “Do you like potato pancakes?” I pass him the bag from the deli, just as Henry did that night of our first real date, and start to walk away. I pull my phone back out of my running belt and call Hannah.

“Hello?” she asks slowly. It’s clear I woke her up.

I cut right to the point. “Why isn’t Henry in New York?”

“Norah,” Hannah says, her tone warning me not to go there.

“I think he blocked my number.”

Her lack of response on the other end of the line confirms it.

“Well, that’s rude. What if something happened and I needed to get in touch with him? Like about Kristine or you or—”

“Norah,” Hannah says again, growing more impatient with me.

“I need to talk to him. I think I can finally make this right. But I can’t do that if I can’t find him. I know you know where he is.”

The line goes silent for what feels like forever. I check to make sure the call hasn’t dropped completely, but eventually, she sighs. “He’s not doing well, Nor.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.” Hannah is quiet for a moment, then says, “I can’t tell you where he is.” Her voice is firm, and even though it’s not what I want to hear, I’m proud of her for standing her ground. But then she sighs again, very softly, almost like I wasn’t meant to hear it. “But you could try calling Kristine.”

I hang up and immediately dial Kristine.

“Sweetie? Is everything okay?” she answers, sounding concerned. Which is fair, since I talk to her often, but always call my mom.

“I know I don’t have any right to ask this of you, but is there any way you could tell me where Henry is? I know it took me a while but I needed to make sure I was really ready. I didn’t want to promise him something I couldn’t give him again. But now”—I feel the tears welling up—“I just need the chance to talk to him. I don’t know if he’ll listen or if I already blew it completely, but I need to see him. And I can’t do that if I don’t know where he is.”