Emmitt comes back a few minutes later, and I help him spread out the food, taking stock of which cartons don’t have pork—and quickly realize none of them do. I wonder if he remembered I was Muslim and chose accordingly, but then I shake my head at myself. There’s no reason he’d think of my preferences while ordering food for himself.

“Can I get my camera?” he asks once we’re done setting up.

I reach for my neck, pulling the strap over my head before handing him the camera. “Here.”

There’s something strange in his stare, as if he’s finally dropped his analytical guard and just let himself exist. A nervous flutter rises in my stomach, though I firmly ignore it.

Instead, I reach for the shrimp lo mein and fork some out onto a plastic plate. I’m about to start eating when I notice that Emmitt isn’t touching any of the food, his eyes focused on his camera instead.

I lean back on my hands, peering up at Emmitt through my lashes as he flicks through the photos. His eyes are glittering, so bright it almost hurts to look at him. “You’re different like this,” I say, the words coming out unbidden. “You’re not putting on a show for anyone.”

A smile flickers at the corner of Emmitt’s mouth. “Maybe I am. A show for two.”

My heart stutters uncertainly. “For you and your camera?”

Emmitt holds my gaze and the silence stretches taut between us. He breaks it, his voice quiet as he says, “For me and you.”

My breath hitches, and I feel like I’m sitting on the precipice of something bigger than myself. As if I’m dangling my legs over the edge of the roof and preparing myself for a steep fall.

“For me and you?” I repeat softly, but it comes out as more of a question than anything else.

Emmitt keeps staring at me. The quiet is louder than if he were screaming, louder than if the wind was roaring in our ears and thunder was cracking down on our heads.

“Maybe I should buy a seasonal pass,” I say and let the words hang in the air.

Slowly, slowly his mouth widens into a grin, a dimple pressing into his cheek. “I can get you a discount on a yearly pass instead, if you want.”

“We’ll see,” I say, but my own lips curve into a small smile. “Now eat your food.”

Emmitt laughs quietly, reaching for a plate of scallion pancakes and a carton of shrimp with broccoli.

As we eat, a thought occurs to me, and I scrunch my nose. “Did you get enough photos for this week? We didn’t spend that long at Green-Wood Cemetery.”