“My sister did most of it. But I’m sure if you ask her, she’d be more than happy to do yours.”

“Speaking of,” he says. “What was it that she called you? Lada?”

I freeze with my hand on the knob of the cabinet door.

“Uh, yeah,” I say.

I feel as if my words kind of clumsily stumble off my lips.

I pull two glasses out of the cabinet and catch him staring at the bookshelf and at a photo of Hannah and me.

“What’s behind it?” he asks.

I swallow hard. The thought still stabs tiny holes into my heart.

“The name?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, meeting my eyes.

I had hoped he wouldn’t ask.

“Um, after eighteen, I started going by my middle name,” I say and then pause.

He keeps his eyes on me.

“But my sister,” I grudgingly continue, “being the creature of habit she is, had such a hard time dropping my first name that she just gave up and combined them.”

He seems to think about something for a second.

“So, no one calls you by your first name anymore?”

“Uh, no,” I say, shaking my head.

“So, what is it — your first name?” he asks.

My heart almost jumps right out of my chest. I’m not sure why. I’ve said my name a million times before, when I had to — when the law required.

“It’s Logan,” I say. My voice is barely audible.

“Logan,” he repeats. “That’s a pretty name.”

He continues to look at me as if he wants me to explain why I don’t use it.

Instead, I grab two plates, scoop up the glasses and head toward him.

“So, do you have any brothers or sisters?” I ask.

There’s a slight hesitation before he speaks.

“One sister. She lives in Connecticut with her husband. I don’t really see her as much as I’d like.”

“Well, what took her to Connecticut?”

“Her husband’s job,” he says. “He’s an engineer.”

“Oh,” I say, as I take a seat on the other side of the couch.

“You?” he asks.

I look at him with a rascally side-smile.

“My husband’s not an engineer,” I say.

He takes a second to study my face, then laughs.

“No, any brothers or sisters besides Hannah?” he asks.

“No,” I confirm. “Just me and Hannah.”

I hand him a plate, and he picks up a piece of pizza and sets it onto my plate.

I feel like he shouldn’t be that comfortable with me — comfortable enough to touch my food — but strangely, I don’t mind all that much.

“Thanks,” I say.

I feel my face turning bashful all of a sudden.

“The guy with the beard’s going to win.”

My eyes follow a line to the TV and then back to him. “How do you know?”

“I just know,” he says. “It’s all in the way they chop their vegetables. The best vegetable chopper wins — always.”

I laugh. “That’s not true.”

“Just watch,” he says. “You’ll see.”

I surrender and silently agree to play along.

“So what made you move to Columbia?” I ask after a moment.

“The job,” he says. “It was an offer I couldn’t pass up, I guess you’d say.”

I nod my head.

“So, how long have you been a paramedic then?”

He finds my eyes.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were some kind of reporter for some big magazine or something.”

I lower my eyes and feel a shy smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

“Sorry,” I say. “I can’t help it.”

He laughs. “It’s fine. I’ll answer anything you ask.”

My gaze eventually finds his again.

“I’ve been a paramedic for about four years now,” he says. “I started here in Columbia.”

I pause for a second to quickly add up the years. I guess he’s a couple years older than me — maybe twenty-four or twenty-five.

“Did you always want to be one?”

“A paramedic?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I confirm.

He lowers his head and chuckles.

“No. I wanted to be a chef. But I learned early on that I wasn’t very good at it. Plus, it’s not really a real career where I come from.”

Now, it’s my turn to study his face.

“You don’t sound too broken up about not starring on this show,” I say, at last, pointing at the TV.

He laughs again. “I’m not. I love what I do. I meet a lot of interesting people. Kind of like yourself, I guess.”

This time, a smile instinctively finds my face.

“Yeah, kind of like me,” I agree.

“What about you?” he asks. “When did you know you wanted to be a famous writer?”

I glance up at him, and I know I have that bashful look on my face again. It’s a side effect of being around him, I’m starting to believe. I try to play it off nonetheless.

“Famous?” I say. “Not sure I know what that’s like yet. But a writer — that would have been at twenty, I think. I decided somewhere in my second year of college. It just kind of came to me while I was staring at a Shakespeare quote one day. I had never really written much of anything before that.”

He cocks his head in my direction.

“So, I’d never dig up any childhood memoirs or deep philosophical poems you wrote when you were seven?” he asks.

I laugh and shake my head.

“Not a one,” I confirm.

A silent moment passes as our laughter fades.

“I never really thought about careers when I was younger,” I say.

I notice his eyes stumble onto mine again.

“Well, what did you think about?”

“I don’t know.” I hesitate a little. “Being happy, I guess.”

I stop at that. I don’t say happy with whom. I don’t mention the house in the country. I don’t mention the three kids we would never have together or the fifty years we would never see.

“Sounds like a pretty good thing to think about,” he says.

A broken smile finds my lips.

“See,” he suddenly says.

His eyes are planted on the TV now. There’s one guy left standing on the show. It’s the guy with the beard.

I flash him a suspicious grin. “How did you know that?”

“It’s all in the chop,” he says, casually. “You want another piece?”

I think about it, then lower my eyes. “Sure.”

He slides another piece of pizza onto my plate.

“So, do you make it home much?” I ask.

“Uh, yeah.” I watch him grab another slice for himself. “About once a month or so. My buddy plays on a softball league, and I play the fill-in sometimes when I can.”

I nod my head as my eyes travel back to the television.

“The girl with the tattoos.”

“What?” I ask.

“She wins,” he says.

He takes another bite of pizza and then arches one eyebrow at me. “Watch her chop.”

And I do just that. I watch the girl covered in tattoos meticulously for a minute. She’s fast, and she seems efficient, but I still don’t believe him. And soon, I find my attention wandering away from the television and back onto the man beside me. He seems too good to be true. And blame it on my odd curiosity, my past experiences or my job, for that matter, but I just can’t stop wondering what his weird thing is. It probably would have been better to find that out before I invited him to sit next to me on my couch in my apartment, but I guess it’s better late than never.

“What’s your strangest habit?” I blurt out.

He stops and fixes his eyes on me — long enough for me to start to feel a little uncomfortable.

“I see dead people,” he whispers low and mysteriously.

His expression is as straight as it can be. Mine, on the other hand, goes completely blank, and it stays like that until I see his lips start to crack across his face.

“Jorgen,” I exclaim. “You can’t joke about things like that with me. I’ve met people who really do believe they see dead people.”

He starts to laugh.

“Really?” he manages to get out.

“Yes, and people who believe that people come back as cats and…”

“As cats?” he interjects.

The way he sounds so honestly surprised makes me laugh too. “Yes, cats.”

“Like in an afterlife?” he asks.

I nod my head in confirmation.

“Who believes that?”

He asks it as if he still doesn’t believe me.