I don’t think that what I have with Blake is perfect. I’m not blind to our slightly stilted conversation, which is probably worsened by the fact that I can’t be honest with him about the basic facts of my life. When I’m with him, I get the odd sensation of feeling like I’m acting in a movie about how adults date. I mean, he always wears belts that match his shoes. He has an artfully designed bar cart, flawless white sheets without any weird stains, and extra terry-cloth bathrobes just lying around, as if a prop stylist swept through his apartment before I arrived. Right now, here on the Brooklyn Bridge, we sound like we’re fumbling to recall lines from a script: You like-like me.

Blake is not the love of my life right now—it’s far too soon for that—but maybe he could be someday. I can see it. Our budding relationship feels like finally touching down on solid land after years of struggling against rocky waves. He’s simple. He’s a solution. And he’s easy to like for a thousand different reasons: his old-school charm, his self-assured confidence, his innate ability to make you feel special. I want him to like me, too.

“Tell me about your watch,” I say, slipping my thumb over the heavy gold band.

He lets go of my hand and stretches his wrist out in front of him. The gold glints sharply in the dwindling rays of sunshine.

“It was my dad’s,” he says.

He grips my hand again tightly and squeezes it. He sounds like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t.

“It’s gorgeous. Vintage?” I ask.

“Twenty, maybe twenty-five years old.” He hesitates. “My dad passed away when I was fourteen. He collected watches. I inherited this from him.”

“That’s where the idea for Bond and Time came from?”

He nods. I squeeze his hand.

“I wanted to create something he’d be proud of, yeah.”

“That’s beautiful. I’m sure he’s very proud.”

I know this isn’t about me, but my throat constricts anyway. I want to say the right thing—this time, not just because Blake is a pawn, but because I feel for him. It would be devastating to lose my dad.

“It was a tough age to have him pass, you know?” he continues. “There’s so much I wish I could’ve talked to him about—things I would’ve talked to him about, if I had been older.”

“Tell me about him?” I ask. “I mean, if you want? If that’s okay?”