Finally, he smiled. “My parents’ house backed up to Elk Lake. Most beautiful place there is. You never find water like that out here. Not that color, not smooth as glass on a calm day.” His face brightened, and I knew he was picturing it, the shade of the water, the expanse of it on the horizon, maybe the way it changed during a storm.

“Did you like to swim?”

“Sure do. Learned to swim right in my backyard, practically. And in the winter? You can go ice fishing. My brother and I used to skip school, hide our gear behind this old woodshed a few miles down the road from our house, and we’d spend all day out there. Of course, later, we brought some, uh, libations along.”

As he went on, I realized he didn’t really want me to talk. He wanted me to listen. He wanted me to smile and nod, to laugh or look pained when he recounted a memory that was nostalgic or sad. I could have been anyone, any young woman willing to sit across the table while he talked about his brother, the past—someone new who hadn’t heard all his stories yet. I hardly had to do anything at all. His nostalgia reminded me of Des, how she was always going on about how great things were in Atlantic City when she and my mother first arrived. The parties, the glamorous clients, and there was always a new casino or new restaurant or new club to go to. The boardwalk crammed with tourists, buskers, street performers who filled the air with music. The money that came easily to the two of them. I was different, different from these people for whom the past was perfect, pristine. I knew I wouldn’t get older and dream my way back to my childhood, the long hours in the apartment when Des left me alone, the microwaved trays of macaroni and cheese I burned my mouth on. It was the future that glimmered for me. California. My mother. Jasmine in the air, like she had described in her letters. A warm breeze gentle on my arms.

After dinner, Tom put his arm around me while we waited for our car, but this time instead of slinging it around my shoulders, he wrapped it around my waist, drew me close. I wouldn’t do it, but I let myself imagine pulling away, breaking out into a run. On the drive home he moved across the seat, toward me, wrapped his fingers around my thigh. I looked out the window while he spoke.

“This was a lovely evening. I hope I can see you again the next time I’m in town.” Even with my head turned away I could smell the wine on his breath, sour and hot. He had drank most of the bottle, but I still tasted it on my lips, where it had settled into the sun-scorched cracks.