Nate—the one thing I’ve allowed myself to have recently that is for me and me alone. The single item on the “just for Marcos” list. Tapping my fingers on my belly, I watch the ceiling fan perform a dozen rotations before I reach for the phone. Nate texts me every single day, and every single day I feel a shiver of surprise. It’s astounding that he hasn’t lost interest by now. Surely he has better things to do than talk to me.
