He would protest to her that he was ugly and wretched and that he hated what his life had become, and she’d say, “So what, Patrick? We still have to dance.”

But then the very next year, Blix had to go and get cancer, and she did not consult medical professionals like Patrick advised because she had magic spells that were supposed to heal her, and besides, she said she was eighty-five years old and that was enough of a life for anybody, and maybe the whole planet needed to accept the idea that life ends and when the time comes to say good-bye, maybe folks could just throw themselves a big party instead of spending all that precious dwindling time chasing down a painful cure and having parts of themselves frozen or amputated. It sounded so plausible when she’d say it that way. She wasn’t one little bit afraid of dying. And he helped her. He was there with her when she died, holding her hand.

She left this beautiful, rundown brownstone building to a stranger who turned out to be Marnie, a person who seemed to come parachuting in from out of nowhere. She was the jilted ex-wife of Blix’s truly horrible grandnephew—and just when Patrick had figured out how to cope without Blix, there Marnie was, barging into his life, banging on his door with her problems and her secrets and her laughter and klutziness and tons of bad boyfriend stories. Go away, he wanted to say. But Marnie needed his help fixing things. She needed advice about the neighbors. She was from Florida so she was baffled by the noises the radiators make and what a cellar was for. She didn’t know about taxicabs, bodegas, or winter boots.

It was like a firecracker in his life, meeting her. Just the way she pulled him out of himself. He began to suspect that Blix might have sent her. Yes, it’s preposterous, but he has found himself believing in some impossible things over the last few years.

But now he knows for sure: he’s come as far as he can come. It may have been magic that brought him into this new life, and if that’s true, he’s fine with it. But he personally is at the end of what he can do. And he doesn’t want or need to go any further, thank you very much.

He stops walking now while Bedford investigates an old bagel that’s lying on the sidewalk, and Patrick has to pull on his leash to get him to leave it alone. Take that little struggle and multiply it by millions, he thinks, if there’s a baby. If there’s a baby—oh God, he can’t even go there.

His phone dings. Marnie.

I’m watching two guys playing with a toddler in the shop, and I have to say it again: you are going to be such a wonderful father. He waits a moment, and she sends a photo: two smiling male-model types, playing peekaboo with some towheaded kid. It looks unreal, like an advertisement.

He tries not to answer, but then he can’t help it. These guys may think they’ve conquered parenthood, but we must not overlook the horrors that await them. Three words, Marnie. REPORT CARD CONFERENCES.

She replies immediately. LOL. What about them?

Right now we have none of those in our lives. This is a blessing we fail to appreciate enough. Sitting in a little classroom hearing the news about disappointing test scores, uncompleted homework, tardiness. Tardiness! Does anybody ever use the word “tardy” unless it’s about school? I could go my whole life without ever hearing the word “tardy” again.

Done! I’ll go to the conferences!

Also. Sleepless nights, Marnie. Those will affect the entire household. All of us. You, me, Bedford, Roy. If nothing else, think of poor Bedford.

There’s a long silence. He goes into Paco’s. He needs a bottle of antacids and another cup of coffee, and he hangs out for a bit to talk to Paco about the Mets, who are perhaps showing a little bit of promise this season. Back when Patrick first moved here and was so screwed up he couldn’t even go outside, Paco used to take care of him. When Patrick couldn’t face meeting people, Paco would bring him ready-made meals, knock twice at the door, and leave the food for him. Some things you never forget.

His phone beeps. Marnie again.

Only eighteen years of sleepless nights. We’ll be fine.

It’s time to be serious, he thinks. His tactics to discourage her aren’t working. Aren’t our lives perfect as they are? Child-free? We go up on the roof and nobody goes over to the edge and falls off. We sleep soundly all night long. We complete most of our sentences. No one needs a sippy cup. Or a Boppy, whatever that is.

She starts typing right away. Typing and typing and typing. The three little dots go on forever. He’s talked baseball scores with the guys, and he’s tasted a sample of Paco’s newest creation, a guacamole quesadilla, admired it and encouraged him to make more, and is back at home by the time she’s come out with her latest message.

A Boppy is a special baby-holding pillow, Patrick, and I want one in my life. In fact I want it all. Sippy cups and Boppies and the whole messy life! I want the family bed and the way it feels to smell their little sweet baby heads, and the little snow boots lined up next to our big ones, and I want the smooshed-up banana on the couch, and I want the day’s THIRD milk spill, and I want to sing lullabies when I’m too tired to hold my head up, and I want to fill out field trip permission slips and I want soccer games and bath times, and all of us cuddling on the couch watching Disney movies, even the ones that make us cry. OH, and I want dinosaur Band-Aids and Girl Scout cookies and those scooters that terrorize people on the sidewalks. And sleepovers where nobody sleeps, and also those little socks that have lace around the edges. And baby strollers! And car seats! THAT IS WHAT I WANT. And, Patrick, it is possible that there is already a baby coming for us. Don’t forget that. Our lives will be perfect either way . . . but I think even MORE perfect with a baby! So there. Full stop. End of story.

There is no answer he can give to any of this, of course, so he puts his phone away and stares out the window. And when it rings an hour later, he winces. Oh my God, has she thought of ninety more horrible things she wants to endure?

But no. It’s Elizabeth, his older sister. Elizabeth still lives in Wyoming in their hometown, and she’s never married because she’s even more of an introvert than he is.

“Hey,” she says in her midwestern twang. “So how’s it going there, ya big lug?”

He says it’s fine. Is everything all right with her? They make the usual polite small talk: summer’s hot, she’s had to put in air conditioning in the front room after resisting for so long, the apple orchard looks like it’s going to be a good crop this year, she’s playing Scrabble online now, and can he even believe it’s come to that? She’s read over one hundred books since the first of January.

Then the point.

“I wouldn’t call you long distance on a weekday, you know, but something kind of strange happened the other day, and I thought to myself, ‘Well, I should tell Patrick about this.’ Do you remember that acquaintance of mine from years ago? The one that came to town and . . . well, you knew her, too? Tessa?”

“Tessa . . . Tessa . . .”

Then he groans. Of course. That Tessa.

“I’ll refresh your memory,” she says, and now he has no choice but to sit and listen. You can’t ever get Elizabeth out of a paragraph she’s already started. “You were in town for an art show, and she was here hoping I’d help her get a job at the college, so she came to your art opening, and I think you two—well, I kind of know actually, so why am I pretending that I don’t know? It was plain as the nose on your face, it was.”