impossible. I try to focus, instead, on listing all the different types of cheese I know off the top of my head. Camembert. Gouda. Swiss. Cheddar. Manchego … Could he really be pining for me? But if he was, why wouldn’t he tell me that Cleo had moved? Maybe he thinks I don’t care? How could he think I don’t care? Provolone. Feta. Stilton. Mozzarella … I didn’t even say goodbye to him the day I left the agency. But he knew how to contact me … Brie. Pecorino. Ricotta. American. He doesn’t think of me, or he would have reached out. This whole thing is in my head. Pepper jack.
