And then I suddenly felt … nervous. Or maybe more like … alert. Like every nerve in my body had been called to attention.

Duncan was neither nervous nor alert. He leaned his head back, savoring the memory. “That was a cool moment for me. Wasn’t I so badass in that moment?”

“You were,” I said, still taking it in.

“That might have been my life peak,” he said then, blinking. “It might have been all downhill from that day.”

“I thought you were talking about when we first met here. At Kempner.”

“Oh. No. But I played it cool then, too.”

“Yeah,” I said, “kinda more like ‘ice-cold.’”

He nodded, like Yeah. “I’ve never been great at gauging that stuff. And now I’m a tough guy all the time, so it’s even harder.”

A moment of quiet, then he added, “But, yes. It would be safe to say that I had a thing for you. Have a thing for you.”

Some of it had to be real at least, right? The drugs couldn’t make him remember something he didn’t remember.

“At Andrews?” I had to ask. “You had a thing for me?”

“Oh, yeah. So bad. But you really couldn’t stand me, so … I gave up. Eventually.”

“I could stand you,” I said, like he was crazy. And then, wanting to emphasize but too flustered to do it properly, I said, “I could stand you very much.”

Duncan frowned.

“I didn’t hate you is what I’m saying.”

“Oh,” Duncan said. “That’s surprising. But you sure hate me now.”

I didn’t hate him now, but I wasn’t confessing to that. “You’re very different now,” I said.

Duncan laughed. “No shit.”

Then he leaned back against the headrest and watched the beach houses go by—all their pinks and aquas and yellows.

“Man, I had such a thing for you,” he said, thinking about it like we were reminiscing. “But of course,” he said, pointing at me, “I’ll never tell you that.”

“You’re telling me that right now.”

“Yeah, but you’ll forget it all by morning.”

“No, you’re the one who’ll forget it by morning.”

“Huh,” he said, frowning at that news. “I guess it’s the medicine talking.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “We should probably drop the subject.”

“Good idea,” Duncan agreed. “Because I do not want you to know how into you I am.”

“Good plan.”

A minute later, he started up again.

“It’s just hard to hold it in though, because when something like that happens to you—like when you just see someone and a part of your heart just clicks into place like a little puzzle piece you didn’t even know was missing—and you don’t even think it in words, but something in you just knows, like that’s my person, somehow. Or at least, that person could be my person. You know—if they liked the idea, too. If they looked at you and by some crazy miracle thought the same thing back.” He looked over. “Did you by any chance think the same thing back?”

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Good idea, good idea. Keep a poker face. Don’t tell me.”

He tried to check his phone again. Then he said, “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to go out with a guy like me.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t tell my sister,” he said. “But I’m pretty much ruined.”

* * *

The school had rented a waterfront beach cottage for Duncan in a fancy, West Beach neighborhood.

Not too shabby.

I paid the driver, opened Duncan’s door, unbuckled him, and put his right arm over my shoulder again, careful not to touch his left side, where they’d done the cryosurgery. He felt heavier this time, and even on that short walk from the car, he lost his balance more than once.

West Beach houses were all up on stilts, so we had a whole flight of stairs to climb. When we reached the base of them, Duncan stopped at the first one, head bent down as he stared at it, and pawed several times with his foot before he hit his target.

Needless to say, we took it slow.

Halfway up, he turned to me like he’d had a great idea and said, “Hey! I’ve got it! Let’s get married!”

“Brilliant,” I said. “I’m in.”

I’d forget everything by tomorrow, anyway.

Chuck Norris practically knocked us both over when I finally got the door open.

Then he ran in circles around the living room, engulfed in delight, for at least ten minutes before finally habituating to the idea that Duncan had come home.

“That dog is really happy to see you,” I said, as we made our way across the living room and Chuck Norris ran laps around us.

Duncan nodded. “Don’t tell him I said this,” he said, “but he’s a terrible security dog.”

“Agreed,” I said.

Inside, things were … ascetic. It was a furnished rental—simple wood floors, minimal furniture, nothing too wild or wacky. There was almost nothing personal about it. A few apples in a bowl in the kitchen area. A laptop on the coffee table, a pair of running shoes by the front door, and a dog-eared copy of Lonesome Dove on the sofa. Other than that, there could have been no one living here at all.

“Where’s all your stuff?” I asked.

“Back bedroom,” he said, waving. “In boxes.”

Next, Chuck Norris tried to jump up on Duncan, but I blocked him.

“I just have to make myself ignore him,” Duncan said, as we kept shuffling. “No human affection,” he said, like he was reminding himself.

I knew Duncan wasn’t denying that dog human affection. I spied him throwing toys for him in the courtyard all the time. Not that I was watching.

“But he’s so fluffy and cute,” I protested.

“Exactly,” Duncan said. “He controls your mind with his cuteness. He stares at you with those big doggie eyes until you do his bidding.”

We’d worked our way back toward his bedroom. I leaned Duncan against the bed, and he perched there for a minute. When Chuck Norris saw Duncan sit, he settled down in the corner, watching us, eyes bright, front paws crossed.

“See that?” Duncan whispered. “He’s doing it right now.”

“I’ll be in charge of Chuck Norris tonight,” I said. “You be in charge of resting.”

Later, I’d take Chuck Norris to the beach and throw his toy for him, and get him fresh water, and fill his food bowl. But right now, I needed to get Duncan settled.

“Okay,” I said, looking around. “The nurse wants you out of that suit. What were you doing wearing a suit to surgery, anyway?”

Duncan shrugged. “Respect for the occasion.”

“Wait here.”

I located his dresser, looking for soft sweatpants. I found a drawer of T-shirts. I might have expected all neatly folded, identical, heather-gray ones—to match his suits—but, instead, I found colors and jokes: A green tee with a hedgehog on it that said, HEDGE OR HOG? YOU DECIDE. A blue shirt with a logo that said, TAUTOLOGY CLUB: IT IS WHAT IT IS. A shirt with a picture of Bill Murray’s face that read, DON’T MESS WITH ME, PORK CHOP.

Shirts belonging—clearly—to the former Duncan.

I pulled out an extra-soft red one with an image of a hammer that read, THIS IS NOT A DRILL. Then I kept rummaging for the sweatpants.

Duncan waited obediently, legs bent, eyes closed.

I set the folded clothes on his lap.

“Can you handle this on your own, buddy?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. Sure,” he said. He gave me a thumbs-up. “I got it.”

But when he stood up and bent over to take off a shoe, he lost his balance, fell—on his right side, fortunately—and hit the floor with a whomp.

“Whoa!” I said, squatting down after him, just as Chuck Norris decided to come over to see what the ruckus was.

“Whoa is right,” he said, as I leaned in to hook my arms under him and hoist him back up.

He was not light.

“Lift with the legs,” he called out.

“You could help,” I said.

At that, Duncan got his feet under him, and shoved us upward with a burst that sent us reeling sideways against the bed until we fell back on it.

He landed on top of me.

Again. Just like on the beach.

But less sand this time.

We froze there—me looking up, him looking down, his chest pressing against mine, and his hands on either side of my head as he braced himself against the mattress.

“I’m afraid we’re hurting you,” I said then.

“I’m not.”

Time slowed down. Everything fell quiet except the sounds of our breathing. Everything slid out of focus except his eyes, which seemed to brighten and darken at the same time.

His chest against mine. His breath across my neck.

I didn’t look away, and neither did he … until he dropped his gaze to my mouth. And then, I just knew that he wanted to kiss me. I could read it in his expression as clearly as if he’d said it out loud.

Was it a good idea? Was it the right thing to do? Was it proper? Was it prudent? Was it even … medically advisable?

I had no idea.

But I could feel it was going to happen before it happened. I could sense his intentions. And I could have done something to discourage him, or distract him. I could have turned away, or started to scramble up, or pushed against his chest to get him moving in the other direction.

But I just didn’t.