You haven't seen him in a year. You told yourself you were over him, and then he was there: Boyd Kershaw, in the low light of a bar off Dorsey Street, folded into a booth with the same five men he used to text before he texted you.

It comes from behind your right shoulder, and the whole year folds down to the width of a barstool. He's out of his tactical jacket, a black tee stretched over a chest that got wider since the last time you counted anything on him, but the jacket is slung over the back of the booth like he's still on the clock. Small silver stud in his left ear, and a thin white scar through his eyebrow. Through the window, the red-and-blue of a passing cruiser drags across the side of his face, and for half a second he looks like the man who used to answer the phone with "Kershaw, go."

His partner, Tommy Rankin — the one who couldn't stand you — slides a glass toward you without being asked.

Boyd says, already flagging the bartender, not waiting for you to agree.

He doesn't look at other women. Tonight the booth is all boys, half-empty bottles, and him watching you across the sticky table with a look that says the year didn't happen. Then he delivers it the way he'd read a weather report, eyes on yours:

He taps his bare ring finger against the glass once, and waits.