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I drew two stick figures gazing into each other’s eyes, gently caressing a bowling ball between them.

Brougham sighed when he saw the final product. “Sure. Put it up.”

It joined the board. “How long were you two together?”

“About six months.”

“So, what made you work? It must have been good for a while.”

Brougham took a moment to answer, and in that time his face softened. Without his trademark expressionless mask, his eyes looked bluer, somehow. They’d gone from navy to almost azure. Like this, they looked dramatic, maybe evenexpressive, rather than bulgy. His fingers lightly traced the corner of his mouth, in a way that seemed unconscious. “We had fun,” he said. “She made me feel like a little kid. Sometimes we’d drive to the ocean and just hang out for hours, talking and mucking around and shit. Climbing trees, playing truth or dare, that sort of stuff.”

“Is that your best memory of being with her? Going to the beach?”

His eyes locked somewhere in the distance. What was he seeing? “No. No, the best memory was when we went to Disneyland.”

“Yeah?”

“Hmm.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper. “We got there at opening and spent the day going between the parks, and we had a competition going over who could get the most ridiculous PhotoPass picture. Then we watched World of Color, and I told her I loved her.”

An excursion that could be extended or cut short depending on how it was going. Lots of things to do. Memories to talk about to stir up nostalgia. Plenty of opportunities to change pace, and do something distracting if things turned awkward or the conversation died. Lots of chances for physical contact and intimacy.

It was perfect.

I lowered the pen. This didn’t need to go on the board. I could visualize it all now. I had the whole plan in my head. “How long has it been since you talked to Winona?”

Brougham went back to staring into the distance. When he replied, he spoke slower than usual, enunciating carefully. “Imayhave been acting petty.”

“Can you be more specific here?”

“I decided if we were going to speak again, she’d have toreach out. Because she was the one who dumped me, you know? At first, I hoped she was bluffing and she’d crack, or regret it or whatever. But then I realized she’s not gonna reach out, and I probably blew it by going silent for a month, so I asked you for help.”

Usually, when I got a letter, I accepted everything the writer told me at face value. There was a certain freedom that came with spilling your guts anonymously, and people often confessed to some pretty bad behavior. But face-to-face was different, and something wasn’t adding up with Brougham’s version of events. He and Winona had shared a great relationship, then she dumped him out of nowhere, and he decided to stop talking to her for a month in response? Nope. My bullshit meter was red-hot.

There was one possible explanation, though.

The first time I’d read about commitment-phobes, I’d been surprised to find they didn’t present as loner, anti-commitment types. In fact, I’d learned that often, they were romantics, who believed in “The One,” but would inevitably decide the person they were with didn’t meet their criteria around the time the relationship started settling in for the long haul. Then they’d grow cold and distant, push their partner away, and—even stranger—often idolize their partner in hindsight and want them back after the breakup. Until, of course, things got too serious again.

It was textbook. But hey. I wasn’t Brougham’s therapist. He’d hired me to help him get Winona back. What he did after that was on him. And in terms of winning her back, he’d accidentally done exactly what I would’ve wanted him to.

“You didn’t blow it,” I murmured.

Brougham’s eyes lit up. “I didn’t?”

“No.” I whipped the notebook out from underneath him and scrawled a title on the next page.

STAGE ONE: DISNEYLAND.

Brougham’s brow furrowed as he watched me write, and he played with the rim of his glasses. “You want me to go back there?”

“With Winona.”

“I’m sorry, you must have missed the part where I said she dumped me.”

But I was too busy deep breathing to react to his petulant tone. This wasn’t Brougham anymore. He wasn’t sitting beside me, acting like everything I said was the stupidest thing he’d heard in his life. This was just someone dropping a letter into the locker. I had the background information. This person in front of me was lost, and they needed me.

“You keep it casual,” I said, writing notes down as I went. “Since you haven’t been talking since the breakup, you have a clean slate. Reach out with a text that’s friendly, but not intense. You want the tone of it to let her know you have no hard feelings, but nothing that’s gonna make her think you have ulterior motives, either. If you have an inside joke or something, use that. Like, ‘Oh my god, X happened and I knew you’d appreciate it.’”

“Her favoriteBachelorcontestant got into the final two, last episode?”