Or—God—she didn’t mind the idea of the two of them actually being together? John’s knees went jelly, and his fingers were cold in the pockets of his trousers. Was this an opening? His moment to tell her what he really wanted? What he’d tried to get himself to stop hoping for since the moment she’d walked out of that restaurant all those weeks ago?

“I mean,” she continued with a shrug of one shoulder, “parents are going to believe whatever they want regardless of what you tell them. I’ve already told you how my parents are. Trust me, one suspicious father is nothing I can’t deal with for the length of a single brunch.”

Oh. The thing in his stomach that had lifted off touched back down to earth. Right. She’d meant that she didn’t mind dealing with his dad. She wasn’t over there fantasizing about being with John. She wasn’t going to pretend, as John might have, that the two of them really were together, leaving his apartment on a hot July morning to do their due diligence with a monthly Saturday brunch with his father. She’d probably already forgotten the fact that she’d slept in his bed last night, or at least, she was glazing over it in her mind. She certainly wasn’t marveling over the stunning newness of it, turning over last night in her heart like a stone, trying to figure out if it should be polished to a high shine or tossed back into the river.

He cleared his throat. “If you’re sure, then we should get going.”

“All right!” she said brightly, popping up and striding over to her bag. Her overnight bag. John nearly groaned aloud when he watched her pack her things up. His father was never going to believe they were just friends, not when she showed up on a Saturday morning at his side, an overnight bag on her hip. He was going to be denying Mary’s place in his life for months with his father.

They walked to the train, and John waved through the window at his barber as they walked past.

“Is that where you get your hair cut?” Mary asked, stopping to look in the window.

“Uh-huh.”

She studied the faded photos of which haircuts they offered up in the window. She pointed to one of the photos. “Is that the one you get?”

He laughed. “I don’t actually choose from these photos. I just sit my ass down, pay the man fifteen bucks and leave when he’s done.”

She turned and studied his hair. John did everything he could not to shift on his feet, not to mess around with his hair. “It’s a nice cut,” she finally decided.

“Probably not the most fashionable way to wear my hair,” he said, although he wasn’t sure why he did.