I slid into an iron table on the sidewalk while Oscar finagled an elaborate macchiato drink with a heart-shaped swirl on the top—nothing compared to the glory of this tart. Round and creamy with pops of color, green, red, piercing blue.

Across the table, Oscar tilted his back and forth.

“I can get into French pastries. French entrées on the other hand . . .” He puffed his cheeks like he was going to be sick.

“French food is amazing!”

“I have sampled it firsthand, ma chérie,” he said. “I went to Paris with my school freshman year and the first night, we had this prepared menu at a corner bistro, all of us piled in—to this day I don’t know if we all caught a virus or if it was the soufflé we ate, but the hotel that night and the next two days . . . holy Lord above. Stuff of nightmares.”

“Oh my God.”

“It kind of bonded my class. We speak excellent French but none of us will ever eat anything Gallic again. Like . . . even the smell of thyme . . .” He raised the tart and looked at me over it. “This I can do. I’ve come so close to getting one of these at Whole Foods, but if I buy one, my mom’ll give me her four-hour Sugar Is a Drug speech. So how do you do it? Not a one-bite deal.”

“Too big,” I agreed. “I have a method.”

“I’m shocked.”

I glared across the table. “Do you want to know? Or—”

“Sorry! I do. Please . . .” He grinned. “Go ahead.”

“The polite thing is probably to take dainty bites from the side, but I eat it”—I plucked a blueberry from the center to demonstrate—“one at a time.”

The blueberry burst in my mouth, sour and tangy. Then the next blueberry and the third. Then I moved on to the strawberry, sweeter even than the custard, bright like sunshine. Then the kiwi, its faint grittiness tickling my teeth. The apple came next, thin sliced, flat against my tongue before that satisfying crunch. All that was left was that gorgeous piecrust and a generous layer of custard.

I hesitated, but then . . . screw it.

I closed my eyes and licked the custard out of the crust with the tip of my tongue, a spiral from the edge inward, until there was nothing left but to fold the tart in half and finish it off in two floury bites.

Oscar let out a slow breath. “Damn.”

He looked like he was taking mental photographs, locking me into his memory.

“I’m going in. I’ll try it your way,” he said, closing his eyes and eating a single blueberry. “This is . . . an education.”

“Happy to help.”

I was happy. I felt new. Primary colored.

He’d moved on to the strawberry, nodding thoughtfully as he tasted it. Wind swept down the avenue, touching awnings and café umbrellas and cars, whispering under the city din.