"Fine," I say. "How does the dating game work these days?"

"At our age, we all have stories. They matter more than you'd think. Sharing them and hearing them is the start of it. The way I see it, there are two ways to go: tell your story up front and let the chips fall where they may, or stretch them out over a bunch of dinners. Wine helps in this second tack, especially if one's story is long and boring and self-aggrandizing."

"Why do I think you put me in the last category?"

"Should I?"

I smile, surprising myself. "Maybe."

"So, here's my plan. Why don't you tell me your story, and I'll tell you mine, and we'll see if this is a date or if we're ships passing in the night?"

"It's not a date. I bought my own drink and I didn't shave my legs."

He smiles and leans back in his chair.

There is something about him that intrigues me, a charm I didn't see the first time. And really, what better thing do I have to do? "You first."

"My story is simple. I was born in Maine, in a farmhouse, on land that had been in my family for generations. Janie Traynor was my neighbor down the road. We fell in love somewhere around eighth grade, right after she stopped throwing spitballs at me. For twenty- some years, we did everything together. We went to NYU, got married in the church in town, and had a beautiful daughter." His smile starts to fall, but he hikes it back up and squares his shoulders. "Drunk driver," he says. "Crossed the median and hit the car. Janie and Emily died at the scene. That's when my story veers west, you might say. Since then, it's just me. I moved to Seattle, thinking a new view would help. I'm forty-three, in case you were wondering. You seem like a woman who wants details." He leans forward. "Your turn."

"I'm forty-six-I'll lead with that, although I don't like to. Unfortunately, you can get my entire life story off of Wikipedia, so there's no point in my lying. I have a degree in journalism from the UW. I worked my way up the network news ranks and became famous. I started a successful talk show, The Girlfriend Hour. Work has been my life, but ... a few months ago, I learned that my best friend had been diagnosed with breast cancer. I walked away from my career to be with her. Apparently this is an unforgivable breach and I am now a cautionary tale instead of a shining star. I have never been married and have no children and my only living relative-my mother-calls herself Cloud. That pretty much sums her up."

"You didn't say anything about love," he says quietly.

"No. I didn't."

"Never?"

"Once," I say. Then, more softly. "Maybe. It was a lifetime ago."

"And..."

"I picked my career."

"Hmmm."

"Hmmm, what?"

"This is just a first for me, that's all."

"A first. How?"

"Your story is sadder than mine."

I don't like the way he's looking at me, as if I am somehow vulnerable. I toss back the rest of my martini and get to my feet. Whatever he is going to say next, I don't want to hear. "Thanks for the dating matrix," I say. "'Bye, Dr. Granola."

"Desmond," I hear him say, but I am already moving away from him, heading for the door.

At home, I take two Ambien, and crawl into bed.

I don't like what I'm hearing. Xanax. Ambien, Kate says, interrupting my story.

That's the thing about your best friend. She knows you. Inside and out, down to the studs, as they say. Even worse, you see your own life through her eyes. It has always been true: Kate's is the voice in my head. My Jiminy Cricket.

"Yeah," I say. "I made a few mistakes. The worst wasn't the meds, though."

What was the worst?

I whisper her daughter's name.

September 3, 2010

8:10 A.M.

Time slowed to a crawl in hospitals. Johnny sat in the uncomfortable chair, tucked in close to Tully's bed.

He pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and stared down at it. Finally he pulled up his contact list and called Margie and Bud. They lived in Arizona now, near Margie's widowed sister, Georgia.

Margie answered on the third ring, sounding a little out of breath. "Johnny!" she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "How good to hear from you."

"Hey, Margie."

There was a pause, then: "What's wrong?"

"It's Tully. She's been in a car accident. I don't have all the details, but she's here in Sacred Heart." He paused. "It's bad, Margie. She's in a coma-"

"We'll be on the next flight out. I'll send Bud straight to Bainbridge to be with the boys when they get home from school."

"Thanks, Margie. Do you know how to reach her mother?"

"No worries. I'll get ahold of Dorothy. Does Marah know yet?"

He sighed at the very thought of calling his daughter. "Not yet. Honestly, I have no idea if I'll be able to get ahold of her. Or if she'll care."

"Call her," Margie said gently.

Johnny said goodbye and disconnected the call. He closed his eyes for a moment, readying himself. The edge his daughter lived in these days was narrow; a whisper could push her off.

Beside him, a machine beeped steadily, reminding him with every chirp that it was keeping Tully alive, breathing for her, giving her a chance.

A chance that Dr. Bevan reported was not good.

He didn't need the doctor's report to know that. He could see how gray she was, how broken and fragile.

Reluctantly, he pulled up his contact list again and made another call.