“No.”

I don’t know why I lie. Which is itself a lie. I do know. It’s to keep Sam slightly off-balance. I bet she assumes I’ve read Lisa’s book cover to cover. Which I have. There’s nothing so boring as being predictable.

“And the two of you never met?” I say.

“Lisa never got the pleasure,” Sam says. “You?”

“We talked on the phone. About how to deal with trauma. What people expect of us. It wasn’t quite like meeting in person.”

“And sure as hell not like baking together.”

Sam nudges my hip with hers and gives another laugh. Whatever test she was giving me, I think I’ve passed.

“It’s time to put these in the oven,” I announce.

I slide my batch of dough into a loaf pan using a spatula. Sam simply tips her bowl over the pan, but her aim is off, and the dough plops halfway between pan and counter.

“Shit,” she says. “Where can I get one of those flat things?”

“You mean a spatula? In there.”

I point to one of the counter drawers behind her. She tugs the handle of the one beneath it. The locked drawer. My drawer. Inside, something rattles.

“What’s in here?”

“Don’t touch that!”

I sound more panicked than I intend to, my voice lightly dusted with anger. My hand flutters to my neck, feeling for the key, as if somehow it had magically vanished and found its way into the drawer’s lock. It’s still there, of course, flat against my chest.

“It’s recipes,” I say, calming. “My top-secret stash.”

“Sorry,” Sam says as she lets go of the drawer handle.

“No one can see them,” I add.

“Sure. I get it.”

Sam raises both hands. Her jacket sleeve rides down her wrist, fully revealing the tattoo there. It’s a single word, etched in black.

SURVIVOR.

The letters are capitalized. The font is bold. It’s both declaration and dare. Go on, it says. Just try to fuck with me.

An hour later, all the cupcakes are decorated and two orange pumpkin loaves sit cooling atop the oven. Sam surveys the results with weary pride, a smudge of flour across her cheek like war paint.

“So now what?” she says.

I begin to arrange the cupcakes on chunky Fiestaware, their orange icing popping against the pale green of the plates.

“Now we design a table setting for both desserts and photograph it for the website.”

“I meant about us,” Sam says. “We met. We talked. We baked. It was magical. So now what?”

“That depends on why you came here,” I say. “Is it really just because of what happened to Lisa?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“You could have called. Or emailed.”

“I wanted to see you in person,” Sam says. “After learning what Lisa had done, I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“And how am I doing?”

“I can’t tell. Care to give me a hint?”

I busy myself with the cupcakes, trying out different arrangements as Sam stands behind me.

“Quincy?”

“I’m sad, okay?” I say, whirling around to face her. “Lisa’s suicide makes me sad.”

“I’m not.” Sam examines her hands as she says it, digging dough out from under her fingernails. “I’m pissed off. After all she survived, that’s how she died? It makes me mad.”

Although it’s exactly the same thing I had said to Jeff last night, irritation ripples over me. I turn back to the display. “Don’t be mad at Lisa.”

“I’m not,” Sam says. “I’m pissed off at myself. For never reaching out to her. Or to you. Maybe if I had, I—”

“Could have prevented it?” I say. “Join the club.”

Although my back is still turned to Sam, I know she’s staring again. This time a faint cold spot blunts the heat of her gaze. Curiosity, left unarticulated. I want nothing more than to tell her about the email Lisa sent me before she died. It would be a relief to talk about it, to let Sam shoulder some of the burden of my possibly misplaced guilt. But it’s partly guilt that has brought her to my door. I’m not about to add to it, especially if this visit is some unspoken rite of atonement.

“What happened to Lisa sucks,” she says. “I feel like shit knowing that I—we, actually—might have been able to help her. I don’t want the same thing happening to you.”

“I’m not suicidal,” I say.

“But I wouldn’t have known it if you were. If you ever need help or something, tell me. I’ll do the same to you. We need to look out for each other. So you can talk to me. You know, if you ever need to.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m happy.”

“Good.” The word rings hollow, as if she doesn’t believe me. “That’s good to hear.”

“Really, I am. The website’s going well. Jeff is fantastic.”

“Will I be allowed to meet this Jeff?”

It’s a nesting doll question, concealing other, unspoken ones inside. If I crack open Will I meet Jeff? I’ll find Can I stay longer? Within that is Do you like me? Out of which pops Are we becoming friends? Inside that is the most compact, most important question. The heart of the matter. Are we the same?