“Well, good for her, eh?”

“She does okay. And the guy has family money, so. What about your folks?”

“Um. My mom’s dead.”

“What?” Hazel said. Christopher’s parents had been very kind. And they’d always seemed so in love. There’d been a short period, as a kid, when Hazel had prayed seriously and nightly for her mother to have what they had.

Hazel reflected, in a nanosecond, that without realizing it she had always considered this a bulwark against death. As if somehow there might be an x = x equation of happy straight marriages and long lives.

“Yeah,” Christopher said. “She killed herself, actually.”

“I’m so sorry.” She broke the last piece of bread. “When was this?”

“Like two years ago.”

Before she could stop herself, Hazel asked, “How’s your dad?” “Never been the same.” Christopher delivered this information like he was in a meeting.

It was calm as outer space outside, cars half-concealed from sight by snowdrifts. Hazel could make out antennas, the tops of SUVS.

“I’m sorry,” said Hazel. “I’ve lost a couple friends that way. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, showing the first signs of discomfort. “Not exactly nice dinner conversation, I guess.”

An old guy in a Michelin Man jacket walked in and shuffled over to a table.

“My mom’s here now,” Hazel said, offering this, knowing the difference between sympathy and self-concern. “In the city.”

“So you don’t have any connection to Pilot Mound anymore?” said Christopher.

The guy in the Michelin jacket slowly lowered himself into a seat, putting his hands on the table and closing his eyes. The waiter sauntered over, now with a lazy smile.

“None. No reason to visit anymore. Ever.”

“Me either,” Christopher said, sounding scared and unsure. “Damn, I guess I really don’t. My dad moved here last year, too. Which is good. It’s good he’s near me.”

They ate in silence, and then Hazel went to the bathroom. Next to the sink stood an ad for a dating show, a colourful list that said, “DOS AND DON’TS ON FIRST DATES.” Her eyes rested on a DO:

Offer to go Dutch.

(Welcome to the 21st Century.)

She straightened her ponytail, smoothed her skirt, and went back downstairs. The old man now had a half carafe of wine and a basket of bread; he was staring ahead, inserting the food into his mouth.

“So what were you doing in Montreal?” asked Christopher.

“Becoming a girl and a drunk. I came back to quit at least one of those. Got any advice?” She’d planned this line out, to say at some point during the night, to gauge his reaction—and it sounded so silly coming out of her mouth, but Christopher laughed a true, unselfconscious laugh, and Hazel started to like him for real.

When he kissed her, hours later, on her doorstep, after paying for both of their meals, Hazel started to cry. She went up into her mom’s bathroom, but instead of peeing, she sat on the toilet lid and cried. Hazel’s mom heard her crying. She entered without knocking, and Hazel told her there was a boy. She said, “You remember Christopher Penner, right?” And her mom laughed a delirious, beautiful laugh and got down on her knees and hugged Hazel where she was sitting. “You two always did like each other so much.” Hazel put her face in her mom’s coat and let her mother touch her as she sat there, the carpet of the toilet lid cover rustling against her skirt.