"I am bad at people," Celeste told Tully.
"You are injured at people," Tully said. "Different diagnosis. Rest. Reassess. Do not amputate the whole year because one evening went wrong."
In the days after the star incident and before the brick-wall coffee, Celeste almost deleted Gideon's number twice. The first time, she was standing in the detergent aisle of a grocery store hearing a stranger laugh the way her mother had laughed, which was not fair to the stranger or to Gideon or to detergent. The second time, she was half-asleep and angry at the universe for continuing to invent mornings. Both times she stopped because Tully, without knowing the details, had said amputation was a poor treatment for a sprain. She kept the number. She did not text. Holding still became its own action.
Gideon, meanwhile, threw himself into the brownstone leak with a fervor June diagnosed as avoidance wearing work boots. When he came home smelling of wet plaster, June handed him a plate and said, "Feeling useful is not the same as being good. Remember the difference before Saturday."
"What if she does not come?"
"Then you learn something about outcomes you cannot draft your way out of," June said. "And you still water the tree."
Gideon waited until Thursday, which cost him blood pressure and two unfinished CAD files. He wrote the message June had ordered into existence: the second draft, stripped of solutions.
I was clumsy about the star. I wanted to offer belonging and instead I grabbed at something sacred without permission. Button is still Button. The big tree is still loud. I am still sorry. If you want space, I will hold it without filling it. If you want coffee that is only coffee, Reza has a booth in the back that faces a brick wall and asks nothing of anyone.
Celeste read it in the staff room under a flickering fluorescent light while a coworker microwaved fish and apologized to the universe. She did not answer for three hours. Then she wrote: Brick wall coffee is acceptable. Saturday. Ten. Do not bring the tree. Do not bring metaphors. Bring yourself and the capacity to listen without renovating.
He replied: Deal.
Saturday arrived with a sky the color of wet newspaper. Reza nodded them toward the back booth as if he had been holding it with his mind. He set down their drinks and a plate of butter cookies he had not been asked for.
"On the house," Reza said. "For people practicing being human in public."
"That obvious?" Gideon asked.