“You think?” she managed.

I had no idea what I had said that triggered her reaction, so I just sat still, imagining that less was probably more when sitting beside a woman who might or might not really be losing her kit.

She calmed, wiping her eyes and sighing. “Yes, I could be more adaptable. Having sex with a guy in a club, in a banquet hall, a warehouse, a library—”

“Oi, Sara. I didn’t mean—”

She held up her hand. “No, it’s just a good lesson to me. Stretching myself is a constant process. As soon as I stop and consider how well I’m handling one thing, I see how rigid I am about something else.”

I pulled up a long blade of grass, considering this. “I should have texted.”

“Probably.”

“But you know, I would have been thrilled to see you randomly show up at a meeting at Stella & Sumner.”

“You also want to go out to dinner with me, and have me sleep in your mother’s guest room, and probably even make cookies with me or something.”

“Because I don’t care if we’re seen together,” I said, growing frustrated. “Why do you?”

“Because people will get invested,” she said, turning to look at me. “People will discuss it, make a narrative out of it. They’ll speculate, look into who we are, what we both want. Relationships in the public eye don’t do well and it will follow you forever if you admit you care.”

“Right,” I said, nodding once.

I listened to the wind blowing past us, muted by the curtain of leaves. I liked being in this little cave of quiet, hidden from foot traffic, birds, anything else that might want to witness our conversation and my silent meltdown. Too many things were bubbling up inside me: the realization that I wanted Sara, that I’d always wanted Sara—from the first day I saw her. I also accepted the truth that I’d expected Sara to eventually hope for more, and that I would be the one setting limits, not her.

“Max, I’m kind of a mess,” she said quietly.

“Will you at least tell me why?”

“Not today,” she said, looking up at the branches overhead.

“I’m happy with what we’re doing, but it’s not always easy to be kept at such arm’s length.”

She laughed a little, humorlessly. “I know.” And then she leaned over, and pressed her mouth against mine.

I expected a tiny peck, a discreet public kiss to wipe the slate clean after I’d admitted I should have given her a heads-up and she admitted she’d overreacted. But it turned into something wholly deeper: her hands on either side of my face, mouth open and hungry for more, and finally her climbing over me, straddling my thighs.

“Why are you so nice?” she whispered, and then kissed me, muting any possible reply.

But this one stuck. It felt too big to disregard and pave over with my hand in her underwear or a grind under a tree. I pulled back. “I’m nice because I’m genuinely fond of you.”