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“We’re behind on rent, and our landlord’s really nice, so we’ll see what happens.” His tone had a harsher, darker edge. “I’m actually glad school started.”
    â€œMe too.”
    He paused. “Christmas must be hard without your dad.”
    â€œWe’re Jewish, so we never celebrated it, but—you know. It’s like the world is made for families with two parents and lots of kids. Not for measly families of two,” I said.
    He nodded. “I know.”
    I felt a surge of sympathy for him about his mother’s bakery, and his father who’d abandoned him for all those years, and his baby brother, and at the same time I reveled in these things, that we both had this in common—tragedies. Did he talk to Gia about his lost brother and his dad? Did he only talk to me about it? There was no way he could talk to Gia like this. What tragedies had she survived? A snag in a cashmere sweater. A slight redness after a mustache wax.
    â€œHolidays kind of suck,” he said.
    â€œI used to like them. I remember the winter before my dad died, we used to go to this coffee shop he liked in the West Village—it isn’t there anymore—where they had crepes and huge cups of hot chocolate. We’d sit there by their fireplace for hours and write in notebooks.”
    â€œYou stopped writing because it was something you only did with him?”
    I shrugged. “I guess.” That wasn’t entirely true, since I used to write on my own also, at night before I went to sleep. Now, instead of writing before bed, I read romances. It was a painless way to escape.
    â€œSo are you going to send a poem in to that contest?” he asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAre you afraid?”
    â€œI’m not afraid.” My voice sounded more defensive than I meant it to. Why was he bugging me about this?
    â€œI just don’t think talent should go to waste,” he said. “Maybe you just need company. Sometime we can go find a café and write.”
    â€œWe should.” Did he mean it? Would we do that?
    He peered over the windshield. “Sorry this is taking so long. Takes them forever to plow.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.” I felt so happy, inching toward the Triborough Bridge, happier than I’d felt in ages. The sun began to set, sitting on the horizon like a butterscotch candy. Orangelight bounced off the windshield, and everything became quieter as the snow sugared the streets and parked cars. I loved the city in snow, the hush and slowness. And I liked looking at him as he peered over the steering wheel. I saw things I’d never noticed about him before: the tiny red birthmark on his neck, and the crumbs and little moth holes in his black coat. I listened to the van’s motor humming and the voices on the radio, which he kept turned down too low to really hear. The faint voices rose and fell in waves, and I wanted to freeze that time in the van with him, to keep it forever.
    The happiness stayed with me the whole drive, and when we finally reached my apartment building, he exhaled.
    â€œWe made it,” he said.
    I asked if he wanted to get something to eat, but he said he should get back, it would be a long drive back to his apartment on 114th Street. I thanked him. I still couldn’t believe he’d driven so far out of his way. I started to take the scarf off.
    â€œKeep it,” he said. “Stay warm.”
    He drove off.
    As soon as the lobby door closed behind me, I called Annie.
    â€œ He drove me home .” My voice dropped about ten octaves. I sounded like a dying werewolf. I had to repeat myself twice before she understood.
    â€œWow. He’s a really nice guy,” she said.
    â€œHe said he missed me over break. Does he like me? Do you think he likes me?”
    â€œOf course he likes you. You’re friends . He has a girlfriend in case you’ve forgotten.”
    I reminded her that Gia