Sabrina’s warm smile tells me I’ve tallied several with that. But her smile disappears as she returns her focus to the display. “That’s good, because no one wants to be ignored. I don’t like it. I don’t like being discarded.”

I draw a deep breath to ask a hard question, since I think she wants me to ask it. “Did someone do that to you?”

“Yes,” she says sharply, then fixes a pinched smile on her face as she spins and faces me. “And I didn’t like it. But that’s that. I’ve moved on.”

As I wonder who he was, a spark of anger ignites in my chest. Because some guy hurt her, and that pisses me off. What kind of idiot would let a woman like Sabrina become displaced?

Whether she wants to talk in detail or not, I won’t stand by and let her think I don’t care, when I care deeply—more than I expected I would.

I touch her shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve moved on and I feel one hundred percent confident that whoever he was, he’s a complete jerk who tramples on people, and tubes of toothpaste.”

Her smile is genuine now, and she whispers a wobbly “thank you” then squares her shoulders. “Speaking of discarded things, let’s put your brainpower to use.” She raps her knuckles against my head.

“Activating brain power for your usage,” I say robotically.

Her laughter is pretty, like bells. “Want to chat about your college days now?” She holds up the phone, ready to record.

“I was wondering why you haven’t hit that button yet.”

“We were just talking for fun before.” She shrugs playfully. “Besides, I figure all this pre-talking will get you buttered up and ready to spill all.”

I laugh. “Thanks for the warning. So the museum is a warm-up act to me sharing everything about college?”

“It sort of frees both our minds from the usual grind, don’t you think?”

I consider this, then nod my agreement. She does make a good point.

“By all means.” I gesture to the sidewalk and we stroll through Tribeca, passing shops and bakeries, boutiques and hip stores. I tell her about my days as a math major, the things I learned, and how that set the stage for starting my first company, and at a corner bodega, I stop, pointing to a pineapple for sale.

“Do you like pineapple?”

“Duh. Isn’t it impossible to dislike pineapple?”

“It is. But did you know pineapples are math?”

She squints. “Explain.”

I grab a spiky fruit, hand a few bills to the vendor, then spot an artichoke and a cauliflower. I add those to the order, and soon we find a table at a café up the street.

She shoots me a quizzical look. “We’re making artichoke, pineapple, and cauliflower salad? I’m admittedly a little skeptical.”

“No salad is forthcoming. But this pineapple is why I studied math,” I say, spinning the fruit in a circle.

She takes out her phone and hits the record button once again.