I have the Drama Teacher’s phone number on my phone: He texted me the evening of The Child’s tantrum. I re-read the text, replay our conversations, and wonder why someone not only noticed I was the author of a Yelp review for a random coffee shop of no particular note in a city plagued with coffee shops, but actually remembered the details of the text.

I begin to stop there more often, sometimes to meet a friend for coffee and hear about her online dating adventures, other times to pick up a cup to go, when I’m on my way to or from the supermarket I don’t especially like that happens to be across the street.

I go to another coffee shop with a different friend, who works in the local public school, and ask what she thinks, and she’s firm: It’s frowned on.

I talk to my chatty coworker – the one who I’d never go to for professional advice – and she says, text him. Invite him to check out the coffee place with you. It’s spring break, live a little.

Validated, I spend an hour composing a text: If you are around this week, would you like to check out that coffee place that I reviewed on Yelp?

An hour later, the reply arrives: Hey You! I’m in Los Angeles this week. Thanks for the thought! There’s a smileyface before the last statement, something I’m not sure I’ve ever seen in a text from a man before.

It’s a great reply, says my coworker. Now ask him to tell you a date he is free.

But I remember all the reasons I never ask her for professional advice, and simply say, Another time! Enjoy your trip, but receive no reply.

At home, there is an email from the Drama Teacher to the head of school about the evening’s incident, so I reply to all, with my point of view and thoughts on resolution.

The Drama Teacher replies to all: You said it much better than I could have.

The next day, they meet, and sort out the terms of The Child’s return to the show.

I pick her up after rehearsal, and park in my usual place. The Drama Teacher comes out, talking to another teacher, but then sees my car and walks over, alone.

I roll down the window to ask how things went, and as I do, he briefly grasps my arm, as though he’s trying to get my attention, even though he already has it.

I ask how the show went. Great, he replies, as though it doesn’t quite connect what – or who – I am asking about.

The Child appears, tired and hungry, and climbs into the car. We head home.

The next night, I pull into the same spot, and the Drama Teacher is already outside. As he walks over, the Red Dog sits up, startling him. I didn’t know you had a dog, he says.

The foster dog pops up, startling him again. Two, at the moment, I tell him. Only the red one is permanent.

Oh, he says, then pauses.

I saw you on Yelp.

I write a lot of Yelp reviews, so I ask if he read one of them.

Yes, I think it was a coffee shop? I think you said something about how the neighborhood needed a place like that … something like that. I live in that area, and mentions the part of town he lives in.

It’s exactly what I wrote, and the coffee shop is nowhere near where he lives.