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Every day a new epiphany hits me. Like when Zev told me that he wasn’t over his last girlfriend—that was me. He was talking about me. Like when he defended elementary education to Robert. He was defending me.

All these epiphanies have me looking around for him. It’s Monday. He should be here. I can’t decide if my heart patters because it wants him to be or because it’s terrified that he might be.

Partida sits at a table on the patio, her cast-free leg swinging. I tuck the book I’ve brought her beneath my arm and walk over. Again, my eyes do a quick once over—as if they can’t help it. But Zev isn’t here.

I can’t deny the way my heart plummets in disappointment.

But then, what would I say to him? I’m still not sure where he’s left us. Where I’ve left us. And while I’m willing to admit that I miss him, I also know that he’s so much deeper into this relationship than I am able to be.

That feels heavy. There are so many expectations of me. And what if I can’t live up to them? What if I fail? Fran said we were engaged. That he proposed the day of the accident. What am I supposed to do with that?

Partida waves from her seat and I stride over, putting on a smile and telling myself to focus. Zev and I painted rocks with her one week ago. And I was right—she loved it.

“Hi,” I say, my tone fabricated and cheerful.

“You came!” she says.

“Of course, your grandpa said you needed to get out of the house. I understand that.”

A sigh falls from her chest. “Yeah. And all my friends are swimming and biking and I”—her head falls to her casted leg—“can’t do either of those.” She peers around the empty patio. “Where’s Zev?” Partida grins—and I know that grin. Every sane human female would probably obtain that grin when talking about Zev.

“Um, I’m not sure. He’s probably at work.”

“What’s his job?”

See? Partida asked—immediately. But me? Nope. I chose to purposely never ask the man. This eleven-year-old girl is so much smarter than me. Had I asked, I think he would have been honest. I think I would have learned who he was so much sooner.

“He plays soccer. Professionally. Except I don’t think he’s playing right now.”

“Because of his leg?” She sighs. “Zev and I have so much in common. He told me he loved Anne of Green Gables, and that’s my favorite.”

“He did?” My brows narrow. Where was I when that conversation took place? “It’s a good one. One of my favorites.”

“Mrs. Gold told me I shouldn’t be reading it. That it was too young for me.” Her eyes turn to marbles. “Can you believe that?”

“She probably meant your reading level.” When Partida looks at me a little confused, I go on. “Most teachers don’t care what you’re reading as long as you’re reading. Although, reading far below your Lexile level all the time won’t help you improve.”

“What’s… Lexile level?”

And somehow, I know. Dr. Strouse said I’d remember my training. I think I am. “All books have a Lexile reading level rated on their difficulty. Anne of Green Gables is around nine hundred.” How can I know a specific book’s Lexile score but not remember a serious relationship with Zev? My brain is insane. “You must be at a very advanced reading level if your teacher is encouraging you to read more difficult books.” I grin at her. “I’d consider that a compliment.”

Partida shrugs. “I just want to read Anne.”

I chuckle. “Then read Anne. Just add a more difficult book to your book pile every now and then. Exactly what you’re already doing. Don’t let anyone take Anne away.” I grin at her, then sip from my water cup.

Partida snickers, too. “So, is Zev your boyfriend?”

Choking on the very small sip I took, I set my cup down and take a minute to catch my breath. Partida doesn’t shy away though. She’s asked a question and she’s waiting for an answer.

“That’s kind of complicated.”

“Why?”

“Uh—I don’t—I’m not really—” I shrug my answer, because words are difficult at the moment. I blow out a breath. And then for the first time in seven months, I’m completely honest with someone who didn’t know me before. “My brain is sort of broken at the moment.”

“Huh?” She wrinkles her nose.

I lick my lips. Why does confessing to an eleven-year-old feel liberating rather than terrifying? “I was in an accident. With Zev, actually. That’s how he hurt his leg.”