Alex is waiting outside my building when the car pulls up.
He doesn’t ask why I called. He doesn’t ask why my voice sounded like that on the phone. He’s just there, jacket, takeout bag, wine, the whole Alex emergency kit, leaning against the wall like a man who has nowhere better to be.
“Thai,” he says, holding up the bag. “The good place.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“You called me at six-thirty on a Tuesday sounding like someone scraped you out with a spoon. I was coming whether you asked or not.” He falls into step beside me. “Richard?”
“Voicemail. Three callbacks. I answered the third.”
“And?”
“And I told him he’s inconveniently alive and to lose my number.”
He looks at me. His mouth pulls not quite a smile. Softer. The look he gets when I do something that reminds h
