He’s flirting in a way that makes me smile. Blake invited me to join him at the park for a picnic, and I said yes despite the trek. He said he’d bring a blanket, a baguette, and some cold cuts. I instantly volunteered to bring the cheese and the wine. If we’re going to spend any amount of time together, Blake is going to learn one thing: I love my cheese.

I lift up the Bedford Cheese Shop bag dangling from my wrist. “This is a good enough reason for you?”

He peers into the bag to investigate.

“There’s gouda, goat cheese, and truffled brie,” I explain.

“Excellent,” he says.

We traipse off into the park, following the winding pathways under shady trees.

“So, you were out of town last weekend?” I ask.

“Visiting my brother in Boston,” he supplies. “He and his wife had a baby in February. I went up when she was born and wanted to go back for another visit.”

“That’s sweet,” I say. I can’t help but think of Sophie. I know her heart hurts when she hears about babies—I have something resembling sympathy pains.

“She’s so tiny. So cute. Belle, that’s her name.”

“Baby Belle, Babybel. Like the cheese,” I say automatically.

The moment the words are out of my mouth, I want to die of embarrassment.

He stops in his tracks and laughs.

“Did you just compare my niece to a cheese?” he asks incredulously.

“One-track mind,” I say, lifting the Bedford Cheese Shop bag again.

We amble onto the Great Lawn, my favorite part of the park. It’s a lush oval of grass, smooth and sunny in the middle with baseball fields around the perimeter. Every few feet, there’s a cluster of people: women testing the newly warm weather in cutoffs and sandals, stretched out on towels with books; couples lounging with heads in laps; groups spread out with dogs, babies, Frisbees; a shirtless guy doing yoga under the shade of a tree; two Little League teams facing off in bright uniforms. Blake points to an open spot.

“There?” he asks.

“Sure.”

He pulls a big gingham picnic blanket out of his navy canvas backpack. We settle in: I arrange the cheese, discreetly unscrew the rosé to pour into plastic cups, and stash it back into my tote bag before the police at the edge of the park can see; he sets up a mini speaker to play a Spotify mix, tosses the packets of turkey and salami on the blanket, and starts to slice the baguette. And then . . . silence. I smile at him. He smiles at me. I hate those first dates that alternate between spurts of biographical information—where you grew up, how many siblings you have—and awkward silent lulls. I don’t want that to happen.