“—you have nacho cheese dripping down your chin?”

Brian wipes his mouth with his arm.

“I see how it is. Me trying to be serious and you making fun of me. It’s starting to feel a bit like old times, isn’t it?” he says.

Just then, the stranger sitting behind us shakes Brian’s shoulder. “Dude, kiss her, bro!”

Kiss me? Who is this guy who was eavesdropping on our conversation? Sure, it was on the warm and fuzzy side, but we weren’t flirting and we are certainly not a couple.

The rest of the fans in our section then let out a loud scream and jump out of their seats, waving and pointing at the jumbotron. I look over that way, and sure enough, the ballpark’s “Kiss Cam” has set its focus on the two of us.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the crowd behind us starts to chant.

We stare at each other for a second and I can feel the pressure from the crowd mounting behind us. My mind flashes back to a different night with Brian, and I start to grow nervous, heat spreading across my neck. We’re not getting out of this. Before I know it, Brian has planted a kiss on my cheek and is pulling away. It was like getting a flu shot—the prick is over and a Band-Aid is already being pressed onto my skin.

The quick peck, in neutral facial territory, turns out to be the perfect solution to the mounting pressure to kiss in front of an audience. Why hadn’t I thought of it? I’m not even sure it lasted long enough to have made it on the screen before the cameraman moved on to the next unassuming couple, but as far as section 101 A, rows 1 through 5, is concerned, they’re pleased. A sea of high fives descends on us as someone throws pistachio shells in the air like confetti.

Brian leans back in his seat and looks at the sky. He takes his cap off, briefly, and runs his hands through his dark hair while letting out what I imagine is a sigh of relief. Relief that an impromptu kiss on the cheek, with his friend’s widow, in front of thousands, went as well as possible.

Or, at least, better than the first time we kissed.

“Sorry, had to,” he says, gesturing to the drunk guy behind us.

Do not read into this, do not read into this, do not read into this.

As we take a sip of our beers, a helicopter whizzes over the open-air stadium.

“You ever been in a helicopter, Char?”

“Nope. You?”

“Yeah, with Decker in high school. Twice, actually.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Decker? That kid had hated heights ever since he fell off the monkey bars in elementary school. Why the hell were you guys in a helicopter?”

“It was our senior year of high school and it was for some bullshit ‘Beginning Photography’ class.”

“God love him, but Decker didn’t have a creative bone in his body. Can’t see him excitedly taking a photography class just for the fun of it.”