I look at him through narrowed eyes. “I thought you hadn’t been to this area of the country before.”

He freezes like a deer in headlights. “Sorry?”

“Dinner time, guys,” Sophie interrupts cheerfully, saving him.

“Oh, good, I’m starving.” He clears his throat and gestures for me to walk in front. “Ladies first.”

The meal, served in an elegant dining room with relaxed lighting, is nice, but a bit pretentious for my usual tastes. They serve us twelve courses, tiny ones.

At one point James leans across the table to whisper loudly, “They can’t be serious. Where’s the rest of the food? This is just a snack, right? A taster?”

I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from laughing out loud at his outraged expression.

“Here, have mine.” I start to push my plate across the table to him. We’ve just been served poached crayfish with pickled melon, marinated cherry tomatoes, Greek basil, and feta. It looks pretty on the plate, all arranged artistically and with edible flowers, but I’m not a huge crayfish fan.

“I couldn’t,” he says, although his face looks at my plate longingly.

“Suit yourself.” I pull the plate back. “I’ll offer it to Nadia.”

Nadia has been devouring everything set in front of her with all the gusto of a food critic.

“No, wait.” His voice is loud and sharp, and the people seated at nearby tables turn to see what the commotion is. He smiles apologetically at them until they lose interest and then gestures to my plate. “Go on, then. Slide it over.”

Despite his misgivings, he is satisfied enough at the end of the meal, or at least I assume he is by the way he leans back in his chair and smiles contentedly.

“Everything OK here?” the waitress asks, collecting his final plate. She has been flirting with him all evening, holding his gaze longer than necessary, pressing herself into his shoulder when she leans over to pick up his plates. I want to resent her, because she is everything that I am not, but I can’t. She is young and beautiful and healthy. Why shouldn’t she flirt with an attractive man?

“That,” he declares, wiping the edges of his mouth, “was superb. My compliments to the chef.”

She giggles, coquettish. “I’ll pass that information on.”

“Thanks”—he peers at her name badge—“Kimberly.”

At his use of her name she becomes emboldened and bends down to whisper something in his ear. I see his eyebrows shoot up and he clears his throat, his cheeks slightly flushed, before he smiles up at her and mumbles something that I can’t hear. I feel instantly deflated. James is free to do whatever he wants with whomever he pleases, but it is yet another painful reminder of something I have lost: potential.

The potential for love. That giddy, delirious feeling when you meet someone new who you’re attracted to. Who is attracted to you too, so a flirtatious dance begins as you get to know each other, slowly, offering up tidbits of information, enough to whet their appetite, but withholding enough of yourself to keep the allure alive. It might only last a month; it might last forever. But that feeling keeps whole industries alive, and it’s one I crave, more now that I can no longer have it.