“I gave you a ring,” I remind her, unamused.

She doesn’t even deign to look at me as she quips, “That wasn’t a gift so much as a bloody horse head.”

Alexander’s howling laugh draws the attention of the entire table just before a suite of servers walk into the room, each one halting in place behind a chair before serving from the left and presenting us with our first course in unison.

It’s crostini slathered with goat cheese, pomegranate arils, and rosemary, and we all eat while playing at polite conversation.

Fay and my father seem adept at carrying on as if they’re old friends. Ignacio and Alexander bond over discussion of the current F1 standings. My mother checks her reflection in a compact mirror, touching up her lipstick after taking precisely one bite of the appetizer and then pushing it aside to keep herself from indulging in any more.

Lainey and I seem to be on our own little island, pretending the other doesn’t exist as we tuck into our appetizer and sip our wine. Of course that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m overly aware of her. I find I can’t keep my gaze off her. The details I took for granted before these weeks we’ve been apart—the delicate curve of her wrist, the careful way she smooths a finger down the spine of her wine glass, every bite she takes—seems more interesting than anything else in the room.

She’s wearing a perfume that’s a poetic blend of amber and floral. I recognize the signature scent from our previous encounters, and with every breath, a sad sort of clarity sinks in.

I’ve pinned my loneliness on the holidays and my unfamiliar surroundings. I’ve wondered if perhaps going to Paris would assuage some of the sadness, but now I realize fleeing to another continent wouldn’t save me from this feeling. As I sit beside Lainey, trying to keep from watching and adoring her every move, I worry it’s far more complicated than that.

The second course is set down and swept up, then the third. We’ve moved on to a honey-drizzled citrus salad with pistachio-poppy seed granola when the elephant in the room is finally brought up.

“Now why aren’t we discussing the most interesting topic at hand?” my mother gushes, looking between Lainey and me. “Have the two of you decided on a date for the wedding? It won’t work for me if it’s too soon. I go to Singapore in February, not to mention I’ll need a few months to secure a dress. I think perhaps a custom Versace. Or Balmain? The options are endless, but I want to be assured I’ll have enough time for at least three fittings.”

Lainey unfolds and refolds the napkin on her lap.

“Late spring,” my father answers for us. “In Paris.”

She claps her hands together happily. “Oh wonderful! And where? I can already think of a few designers who would love to be showcased at the Opéra Garnier or the Petit Palais.”