She had a reason. She'd made sure of that — something practical, something she could explain to herself at eleven at night.
The number was still in her phone, listed under his first name only, the way you'd file a dentist. She'd looked at it twice before she dialed.
He answered on the second ring. His voice had a half-beat delay she'd forgotten — some small gap between deciding to speak and speaking, as if it had to pass through something first.
She told him why she'd called. He listened without interrupting. That was still true about him: he heard you out before he decided what he thought.
"Easy," he said. "I can do that." She thanked him. He said of course. And then neither of them hung up.
She counted to three. He said her name — just her name, nothing attached — and something in her chest moved sideways, a shift with no good word for it.
"I know," she said, though he hadn't said anything.
"I've been wondering," he said.
Outside her window, a car passed slowly enough that its music arrived in pieces — bass, then a voice, then silence, then gone.
"Do you want to—"
"No," she said. "Yes. I don't know what I want."
"Same," he said.
She held the phone against her cheek for a moment after they'd said goodbye. The warmth it left there lasted longer than it should have.