“You told me once you’d love to learn to read Braille!” Ryan says. “And Deborah Ayers is a very connected woman. If you’d been at the party last weekend, you would’ve met her. All I did was mention that you’ll be transitioning to D.C. soon, and she said she’d be more than happy to sit down and discuss your interests.”

Before I can groan, Ryan fills my hands with his. They’re warm and familiar. I squeeze them, wanting to fold myself inside him. But something holds me back. It’s this feeling that if I fold myself inside Ryan, I might get lost. Irretrievably. I’ve never felt that way before, and it startles me.

“You know what I think you need?” he asks.

“What?”

“A really top-notch couples’ massage. I’ll book it for us. Next Friday night, when you come to D.C. It’ll knock us both out, and we’ll wake up fresh for the chili cook-off at my parents’ country club Saturday morning.”

Ryan used to joke with me about his parents’ many social functions, but sometime in the last year he changed. Instead of laughing with me about the country club’s penchant for taxidermy, he gifted me the exact same sweater I spotted on two of his friends’ girlfriends at the last event.

“I’ve never been good at getting massages,” I say.

“I’ve never met anyone who’s bad at getting massages. You’ve never said no to a Ryan-rubdown.” He jazz-hands at me, trying to lighten the mood.

“That’s different.” I look at him pointedly. “My mind just whirls. And I always feel like the masseuse can tell that I’m not being Zen enough.”

“This is the best massage inside the Beltway. Everyone loves it. I promise, you will, too.” He runs his fingers through my hair. It’s tangled from walking in the wind after the concert.

“Yeah, okay,” I say.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“It’s just . . . it’s a massage. Not some magic spell that’s going to fix our problems.”

“Our problems?” He shoots me an uneasy look. “I thought we were trying to address your stress.”

“Ryan,” I say, turning toward him.

“I mean, yeah, I noticed you’ve been distant all week. I guess I should have said something sooner,” he says, speaking quickly. “But work’s been crazy. Maybe I’ve been distracted. It happens. We just need to reconnect.” He signals to the bartender for another round.

It used to be easy for us to connect. Now, even the couple of days a week when Ryan and I are together, it feels like we’re pretty far apart.

I know he’s trying to help, and that he can’t really do that without knowing the specifics of my problem. A romantic reconnection is probably what we need. Then I could open up to him about Noah.