Nora had been Claire’s younger half-sister—and she had been my childhood friend. Suddenly, fragments of forgotten memories began returning: the old Pine Street library, books scattered across the floor, Nora cheating at games, arguing with me about stories, and the glasses she painted yellow with nail polish. Claire explained that Nora had been seriously ill as a child and died that winter, years before Claire ever found me again. She had seen my face on Tinder after seventeen years and decided to meet me, partly because she wanted to tell me what had happened to Nora.

But I was angry. Claire had entered our first coffee date knowing something about me that I didn’t know about her. She had allowed our relationship to grow without telling me why she had really swiped right. Eventually, she admitted the hardest part: she had been afraid that if I knew the truth, I would leave. She hadn’t only wanted to tell me about Nora anymore. Somewhere along the way, she had fallen in love with me.

I told Claire that I believed she loved me, but I didn’t yet know what I could trust. Four days later, I returned to the library alone and checked out the book Nora and I had once argued about. The ending was terrible. I texted Claire. She came back to the library, and we sat together at the same little table. When her hand reached toward the page, I stopped her. “I’m not done.” She pulled her hand back and waited. Then I turned the page myself. Sometimes rebuilding trust doesn’t begin with a grand promise. Sometimes it begins with simply being willing to wait.