I didn’t give her more than a quick smirk. The teasing had been the same since we were little kids, because, well, I guess I hadn’t changed much. My mom lovingly called me “particular”; Perrine called me a “high-maintenance diva.” I was an acquired taste, apparently.

I’d never felt insecure about my personality until I read the documents served to me by my ex-wife’s lawyer. Incompatible. This had been Angie’s reason for our divorce, and the word had secretly haunted me for the past three years, lurking behind me every time I struck up a conversation or considered a first date. Incompatible. This was the label I wore every day now, tucked into my jacket like a pocket square. Even, I guess, when my jacket was now on the back of a stranger.

I paid for our salads, tossed a ten-dollar bill in the tip jar, and followed Perrine to a table by the window.

“So, what, you just let her have it?” she asked, shoving a forkful of greens in her mouth.

I nodded, sprinkling just the right amount of salt into my palm before tossing it onto my salad.

“That sounds like jacket-splaining to me.” She paused for effect, desperate for me to acknowledge her joke. “Get it? Like mansplaining? Only with your coat.”

“Yes, I get it. You’re hilarious.” I threw a napkin at her head. It landed on her brow and sat there for a beat before she yanked it off and tucked it in her lap. I held my hand out for a high five, and she begrudgingly reciprocated.

“And let me guess who made it—Armani?”

This was a classic line of teasing between us, and our extended family, even though I constantly reminded them I would always rather have one expensive, well-made thing, as opposed to a ton of cheaper stuff that didn’t last. Especially when you considered the impact on the environment. But above all, I just liked things that last. This was why my short-lived marriage was also another punch line among the Montgomery clan. Luckily, Perrine wasn’t going there today—yet.

“Gucci,” I said before taking another bite. “From their sustainable line that came out a couple years ago.”

“You gave a Gucci jacket to a stranger?” Her mouth was caught somewhere between a grimace and a grin.

“It’s just a jacket.”

“But…” Perrine stared at me. “Why?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.” I pressed my lips into a straight line. I wasn’t used to this, the strange, self-conscious discomfort that came with having to explain myself.

“And,” I added, “it was the polite thing to do.”

That would shut Perrine down. My actions were almost always clear-cut, done with precision and reason. These were easy decisions to explain. But it was a lot harder to justify a random act of kindness to a stranger.