I put my phone away and look around with a frown before turning back to her. “This is the most romantic neighborhood in Montreal?”

“Er, I mean more or less. Eye of the beholder, I guess.”

And there it is again: there’s this strange, unnamed thing between us now.

“And is this supposed to be?” I ask, clearing my throat. “Romantic?”

Corinne’s eyes widen for a split second, but her stalwart chin comes right back up. “Cobblestone streets are coded into the genetic material of the western definition of romance,” she says coolly.

“Corinne,” I say, raising both eyebrows. “Is this a date?”

“No!” she practically shouts.

“Okay,” I say. “Because, you know, I wouldn’t mind if it was that. . . . A date,” I say.

She looks up at me, eyes wide.

“I’d really like that, actually,” I go on.

She keeps staring at me. A part of me still thinks I should drop it and pretend this conversation never happened, but here we are.

“I know you like me,” I say.

She scoffs. “Is that right?”

“At least a little bit, right?” And when she’s quiet for so long, it starts to get terrifying again, I find myself prompting. “Corinne . . . ?”

“I’m thinking,” she finally says. “I don’t want to get hurt, Henri. Even if you don’t mean to. What if it’s, like, in your genome? As a guy?”

“I won’t hurt you! I’m not a hussy, Troy! I categorically do not hussy!”

“You occasionally hussy.”

“Corinne,” I venture as purposefully as I can, for my own sake more than hers.

“What?”

“Would you like to go on a date with me?”

Eleven seconds of silent signature Troy blinking this time, but who is counting?

“Like, right now?”

“Right this very moment, yes.”

“Where would we go?” she follows up. “Just, um, so I have all the facts here.”

“Oh. Uh, I’m not sure,” I say, looking around. “My brain hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”

All the cobblestone streets of Montreal look like pathways to equally unknown destinations at the moment. “But you’re the one who says it’s the most romantic spot in the bilingual capital of the country. I’m sure we can find a Starbucks that has stools or something. You gotta have faith, Troy.”

I extend a hand toward her, which she looks at for a minute before her face breaks into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.

“Okay. But for the record, this isn’t a sex trip,” she says.

I laugh. “Got it.”

“But I’m open to it being a kissing trip,” she says, and I find myself pulled forward by the side of my jacket. Corinne Troy then kisses me. Fast and hard, clanking our teeth together, and almost knocking me down in all the meanings of the term.