He was waiting on the porch when I got home.
He was sitting on the step with his coat over his knees and his phone in his hand, and when he saw me come up the walk he stood, and for a second he looked exactly like the man I had met at a rooftop party seven years ago, the one who had asked me what I did and listened to the answer.
"You didn't answer," he said.
"No."
"I saw you at the museum."
"I know."
"Did you talk to her?"
"Yes."
He flinched, just slightly. Then he nodded, as if that was fair. "Can we go inside?"
"No."
He looked at me.
"I don't want you in the house," I said.
"Wren—"
"Don't."
He put his hands in his pockets. The porch light was on, and it made his face look older than it did in the daytime. I had noticed that before, in the last few months, and told myself i
