“You must be so proud,” I tell them.

“We are, we are. We just want him to have a good job someday, and maybe piano...maybe that doesn’t pay so well,” his father says.

His mom nods. “Maybe he shouldn’t spend so much time on something that’s more of a hobby.”

There’s an awkward silence. They’re his parents, after all. But Evander is looking at me with those huge brown eyes, silently begging me to defend him.

“Leo thinks your son is very special,” I tell Mr. and Mrs. James. “And though I don’t know anything about music, it does seem that God has given your son something very precious.” They have a crucifix on the wall. Can’t hurt to play the God angle. I silently apologize to God for being a callous user.

“It is, Mommy. It’s precious,” Evander says.

“I know, baby,” she says, putting her arm around him. “Well. Thank you for coming.”

I wander back home, the muggy air and mosquitoes taunting me.

Then, very late Saturday night, fifteen days after Leo left, I hear a car pull up to the house. A door closes; there are voices, and before I can stop myself, I’m lurking at the window behind the curtain, like Rochester’s crazy-pants wife in Jane Eyre.

Leo is home. The taxi pulls away.

There’s a knock on my door, and when I open it, there’s Leo, smiling that incredibly happy smile, and he wraps me in his arms and says, “I couldn’t wait to get back to you, Jenny Tate, I love you so much, you have to marry me or my head will explode” or something equally goofy and romantic and of course I’ll say yes, and why wait, and we’ll go to... We’ll...

With the windows open, I can hear him opening his door. Not mine.

It takes me hours to fall back asleep.

I guess I have to move.

Tears slide out of my eyes into my hair. I’m such an idiot, falling—tumbling—in love with a guy who told me over and over he doesn’t want a relationship. First of all, this apartment is perfect for me. For that reason alone, I shouldn’t have mixed business with pleasure.

Except I couldn’t help falling for him. My sad, happy landlord who loves children and dogs and women and is somehow the loneliest man on earth.

When I wake up, it’s misting out, that irritating not-quite rain that still ruins the day. I get dressed and go downstairs. Guess I’ll go to Rachel’s today. Or into work. I can’t stay here and wait for Leo to not come up.

Then I see him out my window, leaving his courtyard. He’s wearing a suit.

Right. It’s Sunday.

In a flash, I decide to follow him. I know, I know, it’s stupid, but I’m out the door before the voice of reason even puts down its coffee cup. Leo’s already a block ahead, his long legs making me almost trot to keep up enough to see him. I stay back enough so as not to get caught. At least I grabbed my cell phone before I left. I can always pretend to be talking or texting. How did people stalk without them?

Leo stops in Cambry-on-Hudson Florists, where I get an arrangement every Tuesday morning for the shop. He’s a regular customer, too; he always brings his mom a bouquet, which she sometimes sends back. I duck into the café and get a latte. Hey. I work downtown. Perfect excuse if he busts me. Leo! Welcome home! Nope, just on my way to work, not spying on you one bit.

I get my drink and lurk a minute more until he comes out, heading down the street once again. He shifts the bouquet—wait, it’s two bouquets, almost identical, sunflowers and red roses. Okay, maybe he has more than one relative in the nursing home. Or more likely, maybe his mother’s roomie has fallen in love with him. In fact, I’m surprised Leo doesn’t have a bouquet for every woman there.

Three more blocks. Five. Seven. He crosses the park that overlooks the mighty Hudson, then takes the western path. Dang, he’s fast, across the street already, going into the entrance of Silver Elms Assisted Living Facility, where my mother worked so long ago.

Okay, good. I need a few minutes to catch my breath, anyway. Plus, it might be a teensy bit obvious if he caught me in the lobby of his mother’s nursing home.

I wait until I figure it’s safe, then go into the building.

This is monumentally stupid. I know his mom is here. This Harriet the Spy stuff isn’t going to illuminate anything.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks.

“Oh! Um...well, no. It’s raining out, did you know?”

She looks at me without expression.

What the hell.

“A friend’s mom is here, I think? I thought I might visit her. Mrs. Killian.”

“We don’t have a Mrs. Killian,” she says.

“Um...funny, I swore my friend just came in. Her son. Leo.”

“Oh, Leo? He visits Mrs. Walker every week.”

Different last names. Ah. “Right! That’s right. She got remarried.”

“Mrs. Walker’s in room 227,” she says, pointing to the hallway to the left of the desk.

“Okay.”

She waits, so I swallow and head down the hallway.

I have no intention of visiting while Leo is here. Or ever, really. I’ll just find a bathroom, wait a second and then leave. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

And then I hear Leo’s voice, and what can I do except hide like an abject idiot? I duck into a closet and press myself against the wall, my heart thudding. Someone—a woman—is quite distraught. I think it must be Leo’s mother, because though I can’t make out the actual words, I recognize the rumble of his voice, soothing and calm.