“And she retreats . . .” Elliot says, studying me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. He reads every tiny move I make. I can’t fault him for it; I do the same thing. “It started feeling a little too familiar.”

“Because of the fiancé,” he says, tilting his head back, indicating elsewhere. “When’s the wedding?”

“My schedule is pretty nuts, so we haven’t set a date yet.” It’s partly the truth.

Elliot’s posture tells me he likes this answer—however disingenuous it may be—and it stirs the anxiety in my belly.

“But, we’re thinking next fall,” I add quickly, straying even further from the truth now. Sean and I haven’t discussed dates at all. Elliot narrows his eyes. “Though if it’s left to me, it will happen in whatever we’re wearing at the courthouse. I am apparently really uninterested in planning a wedding.”

Elliot doesn’t say much for a few loaded seconds, just lets my words reverberate around us. Then he gives me a simple “Ah.”

I clear my throat awkwardly. “So, tell me what you’ve been doing?”

He’s interrupted only briefly when the waiter returns with our wine, displaying the label for Elliot, opening it tableside, and offering a taste. There are ways in which Elliot’s confidence throws me, and this is one. He grew up in the heart of California wine country, so he must be comfortable with this, but I’ve never seen him taste wine at the table. We were so young . . .

“It’s great,” he tells the waiter, then turns back to me while he pours, clearly dismissing the man from his thoughts. “How far back should I go?”

“How about start with now?”

Elliot leans into his chair, thinking for a few moments before he seems to figure out where to begin. And then it all rolls out of him, easy and detailed. He tells me that his parents are still in Healdsburg (“We couldn’t pay Dad to retire.”); that Nick Jr. is the district attorney for Sonoma County (“The way he dresses is straight out of some bad crime show and I’d only say that in this safe space, but no one should wear sharkskin.”); Alex is in high school and an avid dancer (“I can’t even blame my gushing on brotherly pride, Mace. She’s really good.”); George—as I know—is married to Liz and living in San Francisco (“He’s a suit, in an office. I honestly can never really remember what his job title is.”); and Andreas is living in Santa Rosa, teaching fifth grade math, getting married later this year (“Of all of us to end up working with kids, he would have been the least likely, but turns out, he’s the best at it.”).

The whole time he updates me, all I can think is that I’m getting the cream, skimmed from the top. Beneath it is still so much. Volumes of tiny details I’ve missed.

The food comes, and it’s so good but I eat it without giving it any attention, because I can’t seem to get enough information, and neither can he. College years are outlined in the monochromatic ways of hindsight, graduate school horror stories are exchanged with the knowing laugh of someone who has also suffered and seen the other side. But we don’t talk about falling in love with someone else and where that leaves us now, and no matter how much it’s with us in every breath, and every word, we don’t talk about what happened the last time I saw him, eleven years ago.