Corinne nods and takes it all in, looking genuinely happy. “See? I told you. You’ve totally got this!”

“We’ll see.”

My grades aren’t as good as they could be, I think but don’t say, not wanting to spoil the mood with more weird anguish. The interview is done now. All we can do is wait.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

“Well, I was thinking we could explore the city a bit?” she suggests with her phone already out. “If for no reason than to show you Canada isn’t so bad after all.”

“I’m all yours,” I say before realizing the full implications of that statement.

“Good!” She nods before suddenly grabbing my hand and pulling me in the direction of the campus exit. And then the strangest thing happens: she holds on.

Like, she’s holding my hand.

We are holding hands.

She idly thumbs the knob of my wrist as we walk the uncrowded streets of Montreal, hand-in-hand, both pretending like we haven’t noticed we’ve been doing it.

Someone has flipped the switch, and Montreal’s weather has transitioned from eerily sunny and frostbitten to overcast and mild, but she doesn’t seem to notice, pointing to a different landmark or restaurant every few steps.

“And this is where they have Les Francos de Montréal every year. Like Shakespeare in the Park but with French jazz. And right down that way is the Old Port,” she says, intent on being the most thorough tour guide she can be.

Anyone else might make it tedious, but I have a feeling Corinne could make any Wikipedia-lifted bit of history sound like the most fascinating thing in the world. She’s brilliant, yes—that’s obvious—but also hilarious in her way, and my face hurts from laughing as she pantomimes the story of how Terry and Chantale got into a heated—allegedly vicious—argument over whether or not the Coca-Cola here tasted slightly different from the one in New York.

“How often do you come here?” I ask.

“Well, before my mom made any money, back when she was an adjunct and a freelancer, summer trips to Aunt Terry’s were the only vacations we could afford.” Corinne smiles at the memory in that charming way of hers, flipping through a mental flip-book of fond memories.

“To be honest, I think they both miss each other a lot,” she continues. “The snide remarks are just their defense mechanisms.”

“We all have them, right?”

She looks at me strangely but says nothing as we keep walking. Palm Tree would enjoy this walking path. We pass a sneaker store, and I slow down to take a photo of the window display for Ming.

“Only you could make the most romantic neighborhood of Montreal about footwear,” Corinne says, sucking her teeth.