I turn to him, our knees overlapping under the bar. I touch my forehead to his, aware of how uncomplicatedly romantic we probably look to the table of thirtysomething ladies behind us. I’m often aware of that kind of thing with Ryan, probably because women check him out all the time.

“I’ve got it,” I say. “What about that motorcycle ride through the Appalachians we’ve always wanted to take?”

It’s a trip that doesn’t need advance planning, no airplane tickets or hard-to-get hotel reservations. We could go on a whim as soon as Noah gets an idea and retreats into his writing cave. A long springtime weekend on the bike with Ryan, stopping at B and Bs along the way, would be the perfect thing to distract me from wondering what’s happening with Noah’s word count.

“Or we could rent a camper van?” Ryan says, “Sleep under the stars. It’d be good practice for future family vacations.”

“A motorcycle would be amazing,” I push. “And it’s so us.”

He squints. “What do you mean, ‘so us’?”

“It’s how we met? On your bike? Last summer we went for a joyride every weekend we were in D.C.?” I feel like knocking on his skull to see if he’s actually in there.

“You know, just because we met on a motorcycle and rode it a lot last summer doesn’t mean we’re bound to travel that way exclusively for the rest of our lives.”

“I didn’t say we’re bound to anything—”

“What about our luggage? What if it rains? What if I want to have a few glasses of wine with dinner? Honestly, Lanie, it sounds like more of a headache than it’s worth.”

“Backpacks instead of roller bags. A couple of those raincoats that fold into little pouches,” I say, taking out his catalog of complaints one by one. “And if you want to drink, then I can drive.” I nuzzle into his neck. “Think you’re man enough to hold on?”

“Since when do you drive a motorcycle?” he asks. “You let your regular driver’s license expire when you moved to New York.”

“I could learn,” I say. “I can get my license in time for a trip. That way you don’t have to do all the driving. I could practice on your bike. You could teach me—”

“Actually,” Ryan says and clears his throat. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Why not?”

There’s a long pause, where I hear the background noise of the restaurant like the roar of a Roman coliseum.

“I was going to tell you,” Ryan finally says. He puts a hand on my thigh in a way that makes me nervous. “I sold my bike, Lanie.”

“You what?” I gasp. “But you loved that bike . . . I loved that bike. We loved that bike. Why would you ever sell it?”