But now I suspect, given how stiffly both of us are taking the forced proximity, that neither of us really thought about the practical consequences of this reboot, because in the last five minutes alone, we have learned things about each other that are probably, at the very least, second-date territory for me personally. Reid, for example—thanks to the line that at first extended out the propped-open front door and a strong, warm spring breeze—knows how it feels to have a strand of my long hair against the skin of his neck, a development he greeted with what can only be described as aloof tolerance. He may have even winced as he leaned back on the heels of those same gray sneakers.

As for me? I now have been adjacent to Reid’s body for long enough to realize that there’s a faint smell of chlorine on him, a summer-day-at-the-pool smell, and between that and the light, spicy scent of his soap, I feel sort of the same way I did the first time I slow-danced with a boy in seventh grade. Boys smell like this? I’d thought, new to the wonders of a modestly applied cologne, new to the feeling of wanting to press my face into another person’s skin.

“Do you live near here?” I say, determined not to think about pressing my face anywhere untoward, but when Reid looks down at me, his brow furrowed, I can only think about pressing my face into an ice bucket or an invisibility cloak. My cheeks heat in embarrassment.

“I mean, not because we’d take the food back there! I wasn’t . . . inviting myself over. Or trying to get into your business.”

His lips twitch, an almost smile. “Business,” he says, deadpan. “Dicey territory.” The almost smile grows. Crooked and a little sheepish. God, he is handsome.

“Reid,” I say, fighting my own smile and further face-pressing thoughts. “Did you make a joke?”

“Probably not,” he says, ducking his head and tugging on the sleeve of his jacket, pulling it over his watch. “I’m not known for my sense of humor.”

What are you known for? I’m thinking, but before I can ask anything, a loud voice shouts “MAG!” in our general direction.

I roll my eyes. “Mag,” I mumble to myself, moving through the crowd toward the counter, where a young man has set two gigantic cardboard squares of food. I’m pretty sure he knows my name isn’t “Mag,” but I’ve learned that mispronunciation of this nature is some kind of New York food-service ritual. I feel Reid at my back, hear him say “Pardon me,” as we move through a particularly dense clump of teenagers near the register. They’ll probably have to Google what that means.