Four months of Keeley's life blurred into a haze of summer and fall classes, proposal revisions, and sleep deprivation. She barely had a moment to herself, but when she did, she recharged with friends. Unfortunately, she hadn't had much time for them lately. She hadn't seen Ryan in weeks, and even five minutes with her roommates felt impossible to schedule.

Weeks earlier, they'd planned a Halloween costume party at a roller rink—a singles event. Keeley's last priority was meeting someone; she had no time for herself and was still grappling with a perplexing problem involving Aaron. However, she didn't want to disappoint her friends again, so she agreed.

It was odd. Every day around 3 p.m., like clockwork, he'd text. He usually started with a picture of Dinah and a funny anecdote about her, before asking about Keeley's life: her research, her cat, her social activities. It was as if he genuinely cared about the minutiae of her day—bizarre. Aaron had never been like that.

She initially responded, hoping it would deter his in-person badgering. A few texts seemed a small price to pay. Her theory proved correct when, one day, her phone was off while she cleaned lab equipment for hours. Aaron showed up at her lab with coffee and pastries from White Leaf, claiming he'd been worried she'd been injured by falling equipment. (She later learned from a coworker that he'd wandered the building asking for "Keeley Hall," claiming to be her boyfriend.) What an idiot.

After that, she tried to respond promptly, but didn't always succeed. When she didn't, Aaron would reappear with treats, inquiring about her well-being. It was unnerving. He'd never been this attentive, even when they were dating; she usually initiated contact. Why the sudden doting?

Yes, it was strange, but undeniably convenient—especially now. Working late on gene splicing for her gene therapy trials, Keeley hadn't packed food. Without sustenance soon, she risked losing her grip and breaking a test tube (it had happened before). Resourceful, she texted Aaron: "You busy?"

"No. What's up?"

"Stuck in the lab with no dinner. Feed your famished friend?"

She'd noticed he responded well to "friend," though she didn't consider him one. He was more like a persistently odd errand boy whose services she grudgingly accepted.

This version of Aaron wasn't terrible; he respected her distance, to a point. It was still baffling after all these months. She still felt bitterness that he only acted this way now that she cared less, but she'd accepted her new reality.

"On my way. What do you want?"

"A meatball marinara sub and some Sprite. You're the best!"

He also responded well to generic praise. Ignoring the fact that he was her callous ex-husband, she could text him like any other friend, minimizing awkwardness. Pretending he wasn't her Aaron was the only way she could cope.

It had been difficult the first time he showed up in a suit, straight from the office, with coffee. He looked just like her husband, except slightly less disdainful. Pretending was easier via text; his face wasn't there to remind her of what she'd lost. She wouldn't have asked for a sandwich if she weren't starving. Unlike Aaron, her roommates were busy.

She didn't understand it. What happened to the workaholic she knew? He'd spent twelve-plus hours a day at the office, sometimes including weekends, and worked at home too. Now he seemed available 24/7.

Dismissing these thoughts, Keeley returned to work until Aaron knocked half an hour later. Food was prohibited in the lab, so she removed her goggles, lab coat, and gloves before joining him outside.

"Thanks," she said, gratefully accepting the bag and soda.

"Anytime. What were you working on? You looked like a real scientist in there."

She glared. "Excuse me, I am a real scientist. Almost."

"It's strange thinking of you as a scientist, that's all."

"Are you disrespecting my profession, Mr. Future CEO?"

"No disrespect. You just don't look like a scientist at first glance," he said as she ate her sandwich.

Keeley sighed. She often got that. Short, blonde, and cheerful, people expected her to fit a stereotypical "nerd" image.

"Is this the setup for a blonde joke? Because I've heard them all."

"I don't even know any blonde jokes."

Of course not. He lacked a sense of humoror not entirely. He'd lightened up somewhat, but she hadn't seen a genuine laugh in over a decade. He used to laugh normally when they were dating and early in their marriage. Then he stopped caring about her, so it made sense he wouldn't find her amusing anymore.

(The repeated promotional text at the end has been removed.)