Luckily, Blake opens up. He describes his dad so vividly, I can see him: his skin tanned and creased from summers laying out on the beach down the Cape; his dorky habit of monogramming all his cable-knit sweaters; the way he pronounced his favorite hometown delicacy as “clam chowdah,” never “chowder.” Blake says his dad was never sick; he was fine up until the afternoon of his heart attack. I can’t help but think of my own dad. He calls it “chowdah,” too—in a Maine accent, not a Boston one, but similar enough.

Blake tilts his head to peer out at the skyline, which is closer than ever. I can’t see his face. When he turns back toward me, his eyes lock with mine.

“Thanks for listening,” he says. “Really.”

He changes the subject smoothly, and by the time our feet hit concrete in Manhattan, we’ve covered everything from how supremely superior New England clam chowder is to Manhattan clam chowder, to the way Helen inspired my business, somewhat similar to the way Blake’s dad inspired his.

And then, surrounded by zooming yellow taxis and the wafting scent of halal carts, he pulls me into a kiss. I like the way we fit together; the sturdy pressure of his hand against the small of my back unspools the pressure in my chest. I feel like melting. The awkwardness I felt the other morning in his apartment has disappeared.

“Come back to my place?” he asks.

I’m glad he asked. I’d rather not have him in my apartment, where there’s too much potential for him to stumble across something incriminating. He hails a cab and we pile in.

I like that this time around, I enter Blake’s apartment building alongside him. The doorman smiles at me. It’s just a tiny shred of approval—but it makes me happy.

There’s something oddly intimate about watching a person go through their daily routine. I watch as Blake slips his keys out of his pocket, finds the right one, and unlocks his door. Inside, he hangs his suit jacket on a hook by the door, drops his key ring onto a smaller hook, and sits on a dark wooden bench while he removes his shoes. I know from past relationships and situationships that eventually—if all goes well—I’ll learn to place my shoes and purse in a certain spot here, too. Maybe I’ll even have my own key someday. For now, I awkwardly tuck my shoes and purse next to his under the bench.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“Always.”

He tugs open his refrigerator door and fishes around inside. When he finds what he’s looking for, he holds it behind his back and gives me a coy smile.

“I may have one more surprise for you.”