2. Tuesday
Chapter 2
Tuesday
T he next morning, I arrive at work early, eager to busy myself with something to help me stop thinking about the soulful eyes of Matt Johnson. I'm startled to find those exact eyes looking at me as I reach my office door.
“Good morning, Ms. Anderson."
“Good morning. Please call me Julia.”
“Okay, Julia. Sorry to be hovering around your door like this. I just had a few questions and figured I’d see if you were in yet.”
“Yeah, sure. Come on in.”
I unlock my door. I let him in and take a few moments to put my things down, open the blinds, and plug in my laptop. He stands by the window, taking in the view of the city with the morning light breaking through the clouds. I glance at him discreetly as he moves toward my bookshelves. He is tall—taller than I thought yesterday. Probably six four, but it's tough to tell because he does the thing tall guys do where they stand with their legs wide, shoulders slightly hunched.
His hands are in his pockets, and his hair is so thick and wavy, I have the distinct urge to touch it. He's wearing a different version of the outfit from yesterday—dark blue jeans, the same brown boots, a blue T-shirt, and a long silver necklace full of charms. I watch as he stands in front of the bookshelves, his fingers drifting slowly along the spines of my books, his head cocked to the side as he reads the titles.
"Want to sit?" I ask.
He does.
“Great office.” He looks around.
“Thank you.”
“I can see how people would find this space to be very soothing. That must be helpful in your line of work.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I looked you up on the hospital website.” He leans forward. “So I could explain to my dad for the fifth time that you are not a nurse but a therapist—a licensed clinical social worker, actually.”
I smile. “Well, thanks for that. Makes me feel better since I know a little bit about you, too.”
“Oh, like what?”
“Just that you’re this unknown, up and coming musician hoping to get your big break soon.”
He laughs. It's warm and deep. “Yes, that’s me.”
“How can I help you this morning, Matt?”
“A few things, but mostly just some stuff that's been weighing on my mind. I don’t think they are unfounded worries, though my life has been saturated with anxiety, so please tell me if I’m off base here.”
I nod, encouraging him to go on.
“I know my dad says he’s fine pretty much all the time, but I have noticed some decline in his cognitive functioning in the past few months. It seems like it takes him longer to retrieve words. He isn’t as quick-witted as he once was, and that has been one of the most defining parts of his personality. It's like there's a break in the circuit, like when you start driving somewhere and forget where you're going halfway through and find yourself on the other side of town. Sometimes he looks like he isn’t quite sure where he is or what we were just talking about, though he plays it off well, usually by making a joke. When I push him on it, he tells me to get a hobby and that I’m nothing but a busybody. And he’s right, but I'm also worried. He’s pretty much all I’ve got in the world, and while I know I can’t have him forever, I want to try to make it as long as possible. Does that make sense?”
I like the way he talks, like a steady stream of consciousness—a therapist's dream, really.
“Yes, it makes sense. I can see how important he is to you, and you are to him. He did mention a few times how much you worry. Some of what you’re saying could be nothing, or at least just very normal parts of the aging process. Why don’t we mention it to Dr. Patel and follow her lead? Like I said before, she is the absolute best and will leave no stone unturned. By my calculations, we have at least another twenty-four hours of observation time, so we might as well do a full workup."
“That would be very helpful, for him and me. A little peace of mind.”
“Have you ever talked to someone about the anxiety?” I ask.
“You mean do I have a therapist? The answer is no, but I have seen one before. Shortly after a few … personal crises.” He trails off. “It was helpful in the moment, almost like a problem-solving mode, but we never dug in to examine the depth of things. Not to say I wouldn’t be open to it.” He pauses. “Are you taking new patients?” The smile he flashes at me is so charming it seems to hit me right in the gut.
Before I can respond, he goes on. “Apart from that, I'm probably hyperanalytical myself—I replay things I've done in my head for weeks and months and years, trying to figure out what I could've done differently, or why I did what I did. Now, granted, it's a bit of an echo chamber ‘cause it's just me in there—no objective, nonjudgmental third party. Even despite all of that, I’ve always felt like I am relatively well adjusted.… Do well-adjusted people say that?"
"Sure.”
He smiles. "I do have the occasional bout of fear paralysis and never-ending overthinking. But that’s normal, right? Not to mention, all the angst has given me some of the greatest insights of my life and created some great records in the process.”
I nod. "Yes, to some extent. Anxiety is an unavoidable part of the human condition. That you’ve been able to harness it for art and creativity most of the time is fantastic. And no, I’m not taking new patients, though I’d be happy to add you to my waitlist.”
His eyes light up, like he's surprised, and he smiles at me again. I can’t help but smile back, and he starts talking again.
“The other thing, and I know there’s probably no good answer for this, but I feel like Dad should be living with me full-time. Or at least have full-time care. Don't you think? How do I make that call? He says over his dead body, and I know he has Rita. But I just worry about the times he’s by himself. I worry he’s lonely. I’d feel better if he was with me and I could always check on him. The only problem is my life and schedule can occasionally be chaotic. I basically live in two separate places, but I have a lot more autonomy over my schedule now and could plan for the times I’m gone.” His brow furrows with worry.
“Taking care of aging parents is complicated, and you’re right, there is no one-size-fits-all answer. Some are thrilled when their kids want to take care of them, and they thrive. Others feel like they have become a burden, like they’ve lost the last little independence they had, and that's a huge challenge. There’s no way to know until you try. Not to mention there are a lot of options to fill in the gaps between those two sides of the spectrum. It's probably worth a conversation. Do you think he’d be receptive?”
He rests his head in his hands, and they grab my attention. Again. His hands are so big and beautiful—they look soft and warm. I force myself to look away as he contemplates my suggestion.
“Hmmm, receptive? Probably not, but he is currently a captive audience, so maybe now is the time.” He grins conspiratorially.
“I’m happy to join you for moral support, if you think it might help.”
“Ah, yes, safety in numbers. That's a good call. I’d appreciate that.”
“Sure, I’ll meet you up there later today. I'll bring some resources. Maybe around four?”
“Sounds great. Thank you for your time this morning,” he politely says and stands to leave. He pauses as he rises, looking at my painting. I stand with him.
“That piece of art makes me feel hopeful.”
“In what way?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll have to come back and look at it again sometime, but the way the colors are put together—like it’s meant to look chaotic, but I find it oddly calming and exciting. Hopeful.”
“Interesting.” I feel myself smile.
He opens the door and starts to walk out before stopping and turning back toward me. “Have you read An Inquiry into the Good by Kitaro Nishida?” His voice is so deep it feels soothing, like dark brown honey.
“No, I haven’t.”
He nods and wanders into the hallway, gently closing the door behind him.
* * *
By the time I make it to room 416, I peek in the window and see Matt has spruced up Sid's bed with some very high thread count sheets, blankets, and extra pillows. I knock twice and walk in. Sid is eating a deli sandwich, the fresh rye bread permeating the air. Music—soft blues—plays from a speaker on the windowsill.
“Ah, yes, another one of my wardens. Can I get out of here yet?” Sid grumbles.
“I wish! But unfortunately, I’m not a doctor, and you’re under doctor's orders.” I glance at Matt, who is watching me from across the room, chewing on the straw in his to-go cup.
“Well, can we get that damn doctor back in here? Where did she go? I can never find anyone in this place. Is that part of the plan? If I can’t find anyone, I can’t get out of here?”
“I’m sure she’ll be back sometime before she heads out for the day. What can I do to help?" I sit down on the swivel stool at the foot of the bed. "I have a Fire TV Stick in my office you can use to stream any show you want. We’ve got a pretty good book collection on this floor; you can come take a look. Or I can get my hands on some top shelf beverages from the nurses’ station—apple juice, orange juice—all from concentrate, unclear if there is any trace of either of the actual fruits in it. Or snacks. We’ve got pretzels, cookies, chips—anything that is highly processed and has almost no nutritional value or taste. I know, the irony of feeding people trash when they're here trying to heal. Either way, it’s all yours ... your wish is my command.”
He looks at me and brings his hand to his chin, narrowing his eyes. “If you’re a genie fulfilling wishes, then you’ll go to dinner with my son. Tonight.”
I'm so caught off guard I involuntarily scoot myself backward in the stool. Matt chokes on his drink, and as he sputters and coughs, I suspect he feels the same.
“Now, Sid, that wasn't within the scope of my offer.…” I stammer, trying to recover.
“Nope. You can’t backpedal now, young lady. That’s what I want, and it turns out Matthew does, too, because he was just telling me right before you came in how much he enjoyed talking with you this morning. And how much he’d like to take you to dinner tonight. His treat.”
“Dad, come on! I told you to play it cool! You’re making me look desperate, like I can't ask her out on my own.…” He trails off with good-natured exasperation.
"Well, considering you haven’t been on a date in at least two years, I would say it’s pretty clear you can't get a date. Sometimes a father has to take matters into his own hands.”
I laugh at their sweet interaction but feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. The last thing I want is a pity date. I tell them both as much.
“Pity date?” exclaims Sid. "The only thing that’s a pity is you two young, beautiful people withering away in this hospital tonight alongside me. For Pete’s sake, get out of here! You've gotta eat, don't you? Go out into the world! Enjoy your damn selves! At least do it for me, while I’m trapped in this beeping purgatory.” His glare is fierce.
Matt looks at me, and in his most chivalrous voice says, “I’d really like to take you to dinner, if you're free.”
I stare at him and then at Sid and back again, hoping to convey to them both how uncomfortable this situation is.
“Don’t say no, sweetheart,” Sid interjects. “Look at that handsome face of his. And remember, you’re fulfilling a dying man's wishes.”
“You aren’t dying!” Matt and I say at the same time. I look at Matt, his eyes twinkling with good-natured fun. God, he is gorgeous.
“Fine,” I concede as I turn to leave the room.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty?” Matt calls out after me.
* * *
Once in the safety of my office, I am equal parts grateful and pissed that I have agreed to this last-minute, very coerced dinner with Matt. I don’t have enough time to go home and change, let alone freak out about it. I rush over to my desk, rummaging for the emergency supplies I keep in the bottom drawer.
I reapply deodorant and brush my teeth. I dressed this morning in anticipation of seeing Matt again, so I have a relatively sexy yet still professional outfit on—a sleeveless navy knit dress by Reformation that is tighter and shorter than I’d normally wear to work. I flip my head upside down, running my fingers through my long dark hair, hoping to add some volume, then finger comb it around my face. I walk over to the mirror behind my fridge and blot my face with a napkin before patting on some powder and bronzer. I recurl my eyelashes and put on another coat of mascara, making my espresso brown eyes look brighter, add lip gloss, grab my purse, and head for the elevator before I can overthink the absurdity and borderline ethical issues of this situation. As I ride the elevator down, I shoot a quick text to Dave.
I am informing you for safety purposes that I am going to dinner with room 416’s son.
He immediately texts back:
!!??!!? WHAT !!???!!!
I toss my phone into my purse and take a deep breath.
* * *
Matt is waiting in the lobby with his back to me. He is hard to miss despite all the people milling around. He looks even taller down here with the high ceilings, but I notice the slight hunch of shoulders, almost as if he is being pushed down by gravity. My heart swells, and I wonder if the worry about his dad is taking a toll. When he turns and sees me, a wide smile flashes across his face. I try my hardest not to blush.
“You look lovely. Ready to go?” He leads me toward a waiting SUV. I nod and watch with curiosity as he glances side to side before leaving the safety of the hospital lobby. He holds the door open as I slide across the bench seat and then hops in behind me.
“There’s a place in the West Village that is one of my favorites. I got us a table.” Just as I start to wonder how he got a table so quickly, he tells the driver, “The Waverly Inn, please."
“You got it, Matt.”
And I realize this is not a random Uber but his personal driver, and he can get a last-minute table no problem because I am going to dinner with the world-famous Matt Johnson.
* * *
We walk down the steps to the restaurant and are quickly led to a table in the corner of the covered back patio. I sit against a wall dripping with greenery and Matt sits with his back to the restaurant. As I glance around the room, I am hit with a memory—Nick and me here together once, years ago at Christmastime. We sat by the fireplace and ordered hot toddies and burgers. We were buzzed from the drinks, the charming ambiance, and the festive mood swirling around the city. By the end of the night, we were making out at the bar. I cringe and shake the memory away as a server appears with a carafe of water and two glasses.
“Hi, Matt, welcome back. Do you want the usual?”
“Yes, that’d be great, Amy, thank you kindly.”
She turns to me. “What would you like to drink?”
“I’m fine with water for now, thanks.”
We sit in silence as Matt opens the carafe and pours water into my glass before filling his own. I start reading through the menu, not absorbing any of the information. I feel like all my senses are heightened, sitting across from Matt, outside the safety of the hospital. I can’t concentrate on anything besides not making a complete ass of myself in what is most definitely a pity date. Do I have no dignity? I wonder. The server comes back with a glass of scotch with one giant ice cube and what looks like sake in a smaller cup.
“Did you see anything you’d like to drink yet?” She waits patiently.
I glance back to my menu. I don’t even see sake on it, but all the words blur together as I use all my energy to try to remember what I like to drink.
“Hmm ..." I murmur, stalling, searching. My palms dampen with sweat. I feel them staring at me.
“I think I’m good with the water, thanks,” I blurt before staring blankly back at the menu.
I look up to find Matt watching me intently. He seems amused.
“What's going on in that mind of yours?”
I blink, embarrassed he's somehow read the panic on my face and surprised that he noticed.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m trying to think what it might say about me—to you—that I didn’t order a drink."
"What do you think I might be thinking?"
"Maybe I have a drinking problem? Or maybe I’m a purist who puts no toxins in my body? Neither is true, for the record. I like alcohol. In a normal, socially acceptable, nondiagnosable way. I was just drawing a blank. I’m nervous, and I’m not usually,” I answer honestly. Too honestly.
He laughs. “There is nothing I can relate more to than overthinking. And just so you know, I wasn't thinking that at all. I'm a little nervous, too.”
I don't know if I believe him, but I feel some of my jitters dissipate. His voice is comforting, his presence calming.
“Tell me more.” He leans back in his chair, casually crossing his arms across his chest, his tattoos on full display.
“Okay." I take a breath. “I was running through what I could order and what it might convey—maybe a vodka martini, straight up with three olives, because that might make me seem sophisticated or mysterious. Or like a real WASPy upper crust kind of gal. But I'm none of those things, and if I'm honest, I'm not convinced I even know what straight up means. Plus, I never know how strong martinis are going to be, and I’m a bit of a lightweight and do not want you to have to carry me out of here. So that's out."
He laughs, and I feel it in my stomach. "So, then what?"
I settle in. "So, then I’m thinking, maybe a vodka soda or tequila soda with lime. Simple, right? But no. That might scream sorority girl, counting calories, ordering two at a time at a bar with a sticky floor where there’s no cover for ladies on Tuesday nights. So, then what? I could order a beer, which I do enjoy from time to time, especially in the summer or at a sporting event, but I think that might make you think I’m trying too hard to be cool. Like I’m just one of the guys. And I am not that. I love men but have no intention of ever trying to fit in with them. After that, I guess there is the white wine option, a safe bet, but that feels like I’m instantly transported to the life of a fifty-something stay-at-home wife whose kids are all at insanely expensive private liberal arts colleges and who buys buttery chardonnay in the big bottles from Sam's Club. That’s depressing all by itself, notwithstanding the inevitable headache white wine always gives me. That leaves me with a glass of red wine, which would be my go-to, except the price range is so vast I don't know what is reasonable for a … coerced dinner. Plus I can't even tell the difference between a twenty dollar bottle and a two hundred dollar bottle, but my real concern is the fact certain reds are more likely to stain my teeth. So that’s a huge gamble. I’m not sure if you have a George Washington kink, but that’s not quite the look I’m going for.”
He is fully laughing at this point as I ramble on.
“Wait, what? A George Washington kink?”
“His teeth,” I say. He shakes his head, not getting it.
“George Washington had wooden teeth. A little red wine stain on teeth can make them look exactly like that.”
He bursts out laughing, leaning forward onto the table. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
“See my struggle?” I smile, finally feeling calm and warm and delighted.
“So where does this leave you, drink-wise?”
“I could go around and around all night, but that sake you’re drinking looks good, so maybe I’ll try it.”
He passes his glass to me. I raise it to him as he lifts his scotch.
“To your dad."
“To my dad."
After we order our food, a mercifully easier decision for me, Matt asks me thoughtful questions. Not the typical interview-style first date questions— not that this is even a date , I remind myself. He asks with the intent to listen rather than formulating his own response as I speak. Listening is a skill I’ve spent years of training and supervision to master. That he can do it so well is impressive to me … and very sexy.
He doesn’t seem interested in where I went to college or what neighborhood I live in. Rather, he asks me, “What is something you see in your job that most surprises you?”
I take another sip of my drink, thinking hard about the question.
“A lot of it is the obvious things. Like the resilience of the human spirit. Like in my first job out of grad school in Baltimore. I was working with kids and families who were having a very hard time. These families would welcome me into their homes, willingly reveal all their skeletons, to let me walk with them toward change. It always seemed like such a great act of love to me. These families lived in some of the most dangerous neighborhoods, with the bleakest conditions, and yet love and hope grew like wildflowers. I noticed it was the women, mostly, who watered their communities. I still think about those kids, the ones with the all the odds stacked against them, and hope and wish that they are okay.”
He leans forward, listening even more intently.
“Conversely, sometimes a health or mental health crisis brings out the worst in people. Fear looks different on everyone. Sometimes it looks like anger, sometimes hopelessness, sometimes an endless pursuit for answers. Once I started to understand that, it was easier to navigate. That’s another thing that surprises me. That I have been fortunate to witness hope as something tangible—something I can see with my own two eyes. It’s a jolt of recognition that comes across a person’s face when they feel understood for the first time in their life. Sometimes that simple connection is all it takes to keep them tethered to earth. I’m always surprised and amazed when people begin to feel the power they gain when they realize they don’t have to be held hostage by their emotions and thoughts or their demons and traumas.”
Before I know it, we've finished our dinners and order another round of sake. I have not asked him a single question.
“I promise I do get out from time to time and interact with other humans,” I joke, embarrassed I've somehow spoken so freely to him.
“No, no, it’s fascinating. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy listening to you. It’s not every day I talk to someone who is so clearly passionate about their work. Plus, it’s so different from the world I’m in. Things I don’t often think about. It's very cool."
“Well, now it's your turn.”
"I’d much rather hear more about you and what is going on inside that mind of yours. But sure, what do you want to know?”
I pause, taking him in over the low lighting. He is so handsome it almost doesn't seem fair. “What's something, let’s just say in your professional life, that you’re not good at?”
“Hmmmmm.” He rests his head in his hand. “Probably a lot of things I haven’t yet realized. But I know I struggle, at least in my music, to collaborate. To let other people in. To release that control I have and the control I feel like I need in everything I create. I’m pretty sure of myself most of the time, at least when it comes to sounds, melodies, lyrics. What works and what doesn’t. But I am very much in my head about the entire process until the last possible second. Once I’ve got it all figured out, I’ll call my guys up—they're the best around—and we will lay it all out based on the blueprints of that original architecture I’ve already created in my mind. Sure, they have some creative liberties to do their own thing, but if I’m honest, it's probably a little constricted, given the parameters I set out. The flip side is that it’s worked for me so far, which is why I haven’t tried too hard to change anything.”
“Is changing things something you want to do?”
“Good question."
"I know."
He smiles. "I’m not sure. I sometimes wonder if I’m coasting. I'm at a point in my career where I'm not sure what's next for me or where to go from here. Over the years, I’ve been equal parts lucky and dedicated to somehow mitigate a lot of the risks most newer artists face. I’ve kind of shown the world, and myself, I’m a known quantity. I’m consistent. I may not be chart topping every time, but I make music I love and that some people still want to hear. I’ve got the most loyal and supportive fans in the world. They’ll listen to anything I put out, so from that standpoint, I don’t know why I would change. But at the same time, I wonder if I’m stagnant. If there is more somewhere. If I just pushed myself a little bit, maybe I could get to the next level. Next level for me is not something that might be measurable by anything out here in the world, but something only I can truly know.”
“That's a tough balance—pushing and stretching versus sticking with what works and enjoying the ride.”
“Exactly.”
“Where do you get ideas for songs?”
“Ha." He laughs good-naturedly. "Standard interview question. And the standard answer is everything, everywhere, everyone, life in general. And to answer the next interview question, no, my songs are not about specific people, they are just about the ideas of people. Themes. Patterns. Feelings.”
“What's the non-standard answer?”
“It's generally the same, ‘cause the standard one isn't dishonest. It’s just more nuanced than I usually care to go into most of the time. Sometimes an idea for a song will hit me as I’m showering or stuck in traffic. Sometimes it feels like it’s been living inside me, and I haven’t quite been able to figure out what it was until a very specific moment. Sometimes it feels like when you have to sneeze, and you stop and brace yourself—that anticipation, and then nothing happens, so I have to dig a little. Sometimes it's born out of pure chemical reactions, super high highs, and the lowest of lows. Sometimes it's a story I’ve made up in my head. It’s anything and everything. The only thing I’ve learned is that I just have to pay attention.”
I cock my head at him, surprised by his insight. “That is something I say to myself and my patients, often. Pay attention.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asks.
“I mean that we spend most of our waking hours, and our lives, on autopilot. Going from task to task, checking things off our to-do lists, and any time in between is spent scanning the never-ending tasks and thoughts and worries. That makes it hard to pay attention, so we spend a lot of time going through the motions. Making a million little decisions every day without even thinking about it. Mindfulness—a big buzzword right now—to me is simply practicing the art of paying attention. To know what is happening, when it’s happening, because you are purposely ignoring everything else to be in the present moment.”
He gives me a look I can't interpret and says, "So, kind of like, 'sit, be still, and listen.’"
"Yes. Exactly. That's Rumi.”
He squints his eyes and looks at me, like he's seeing something new.
“You are incredibly beautiful,” he says suddenly, confidently.
It catches me by surprise, and I feel adrenaline surge through my veins. Through the candlelight, he smiles a half smile at me that is so smoldering, several unholy thoughts cross my mind.
“Thank you,” I fight the urge to look down at my lap.
Our conversation carries on naturally and gracefully, like a river flowing downstream. We both seem happy to ride along through the different bends it takes. We pass on dessert, our plates are cleared, and more sake is brought out. I feel buzzed from the rice wine, the conversation, the unexpectedness of sitting across from this very attractive and interesting man on a random Tuesday night. It feels like no time has passed, and yet like I somehow have been sitting with him at this table forever. When I take a second to look around, I see the servers sweeping the floors and tallying up their tips.
I start to gather up my purse. “This was great. Thank you for dinner—even if you were coerced.”
“You're very welcome. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed this."
"Me too."
“It was a pleasant surprise to meet you. And I haven’t worried about my dad for a single moment since we sat down.” He checks his watch and does a low whistle. “Shit, I should probably get back to check on him.”
“I can check in with Christine quickly, she's on tonight.”
“That’d be great.”
I grab my phone from my purse and furiously swipe away the seventeen text messages from Dave, ones with thousands of angry question marks followed by one that says, YOU MUST TELL ME EVERYTHING.
I click Christine’s contact info, and she picks up on the first ring. “Hey, I’m with Matt, how’s Sid?”
"Interesting …" she murmurs, and I hear her get up and walk down the hall. “He’s sound asleep. For someone as pernickety as him, he looks angelic when he’s asleep.”
“Anything new?” I ask.
“All continues to be on the up and up. Dr. P thinks she might discharge tomorrow evening if all looks good in the morning. I’d tell his son there is no reason for him to come back and sleep in this god-awful recliner. His dad is out for the night, and he’s got me at the click of a button.”
“Thanks, Chris. I’ll tell him. See you in the morning.”
“Have fun,” she grumbles and hangs up.
“Your dad is asleep, and everything looks good. No reason to wake up with your back in a pretzel from that recliner. She will take good care of him, so you can get a good night's rest.”
He looks relieved. “That is great news. Thank you for doing that.”
“No problem.”
“I really enjoyed this,” Matt says.
“You already said that.”
“Well, I’m saying it again, for emphasis.” He reaches for my hand across the table. I give it to him and feel the warmth coming from his palm.
“Thank you,” he repeats.
I look at him and feel the same electrical current I felt the moment I first laid eyes on him yesterday. It almost makes me flinch, and I pull my hand back. “You’re welcome.”
We both stand to leave. “Take my car home,” he offers.
“No, no, it’s beautiful out tonight, I’m happy to walk.”
“Please, I insist.”
“Okay," I concede. "But how will you get home?"
"I think I'll float," he says with a cheeky smile.
I lean in to give him a quick hug. I catch a scent in the spot between his neck and his shoulder. It smells like crisp, clean woodsy, mixed with something citrusy. It overwhelms me, and I stay there a moment longer, breathing him in, feeling his arms wrapped lightly around my lower back. I back up, suddenly feeling the urgent need to get out of there.
“Good night,” he calls after me.
"Good night," I echo.