“No, I haven’t,” I admit. “What’s been your favorite trip so far?”

He thinks for a moment. “Traveling for gymnastics is always cool, but you don’t get tons of time to actually explore or indulge in great food, so… hmm. I guess my favorite would be the summer that Goose and I backpacked across Europe together.”

I wish I had done something like that.

“And obviously, we saw some of the best beaches in the world,” he says.

“Why obviously?” I ask. “I’d think that would be, like, the Caribbean.”

He leans in closer and stage-whispers, “Nude beaches.”

“You perv!” I squeal. The wine has definitely started to go to my head.

He holds up his hands in protest. “Hey, I’m just a man.”

“I don’t know if I could ever do that,” I muse.

“What, go to a nude beach?” he asks.

“Yeah. I mean, maybe years ago, when I was in shape, but certainly not now.”

He raises an eyebrow, then looks down in intense concentration at his bowl.

“What?” I ask.

He sips his soup. “You could go,” he says, coyly glancing up at me.

“Did you strip down?” I ask.

“When in Rome…” he replies.

I feel precariously close to the edge of saying something stupidly flirty, so I shove a tortellini into my mouth to keep myself from speaking. Discussing nude beaches makes me wonder what Ryan looks like naked, which is absolutely the very last thing I should be doing.

We linger after we finish eating. He tells stories about what Hallie was like when he first met her (apparently, “tiny, furiously hardworking, adorably wholesome, and too energetic”—or in other words, exactly like she is today). We go off on tangents about gymnasts we competed alongside a decade ago, musing about the few in the public eye today and the majority who faded into quiet lives. We try to gauge where we fall on the spectrum, and jokingly agree to not let the fame go to our heads.

Ryan runs a finger around the rim of his empty wineglass, and his mouth screws up to the side.

“What?” I ask.

“I was going to suggest another glass, but that’s probably not the wisest idea if I have to drive out of here,” he says.

“True,” I say.

“But this was fun,” he says, suddenly serious. “I mean it. I’m glad we did this.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“Let me pay you for half the groceries and wine,” he says, reaching for his wallet.

“Oh, no, no,” I protest. “I was going to make all this, anyway.”

“Avery, it’s fine, I don’t mind,” he says.

“No, really, I can’t let you pay for this,” I insist.

“Fine,” he says heavily. “But next time, I’ll win.”

“Oh, next time?” I retort. “We’ll see about that.”

I like that we can match each other in competitive spirit.