I thought of Vance at the birthday party, choosing champagne and approval over a frantic phone call.

It was strange how closely two men’s lives could echo while the choices available to them remained different.

“Then don’t,” I said.

That summer I planted lavender in pots outside my apartment.

Evelyn had grown it by our kitchen steps.

Warren showed up with a trowel and announced that he had been reading about soil drainage.

We spent two hours getting dirt under our nails.

On the way out he paused beside a framed photograph of my mother holding me as a baby.