15
Ryan’s spare set of keys in my tote may as well have been a brick, given how aware of them I was. Had those really been his shoes on the gurney? I called him four more times, but each time it went straight to voicemail.
‘Ryan, it’s Maeve. Call me when you get this, okay? I need to know you’re all right.’ Each message a more frantic and pleading variation on the last. It occurred to me to ask the driver to go to the bar where Ryan worked, but I couldn’t even do that. It didn’t open until four, and it was before two.
‘This okay?’
‘What? Oh.’ The taxi was stopped in front of my apartment building. We’d gone all the way back into Brooklyn without me even noticing the bridge. I fumbled for my wallet.
‘This one’s on me,’ the driver said.
‘Thanks.’ It was only when I climbed out, looked
