“It’s a rice porridge with chicken,” Dorsey said.

“Are you gonna show us how to make it?” Liza rubbed her palms together.

“We know how to make it. I’m gonna teach you,” Park said.

“Taught by a famous chef!” Liza said. Dorsey’s heart hammered with a mix of fear and anticipation. She likes Joseph Park. Who wouldn’t? Why would he introduce two of the most charming people he’d ever met and think they wouldn’t hit it off?

“And D here is gonna be the taste tester,” Park said.

“If he doesn’t like it?” Liza asked.

“Back to the drawing board,” Park said. Still teasing, slightly flirting. Dorsey was already reading their wedding announcement in the Washington Post.

When it was time to check out, Liza and Dorsey pulled the cart toward the attendant while Joseph pulled it toward the self-checkout.

Liza and Dorsey spoke up in unison, “Oh no.”

Park’s shoulders slumped. “Liza, don’t tell me you’re like him.”

Liza lifted her haughty chin. “Self-checkout is a scam.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Dorsey said.

“You two are ridiculous. There is no line, and there is an eighty-year-old cashier in aisle four! This is a no-brainer,” Park said.

“It will always take longer,” Liza said. Her tone was imperious, and her little button nose tilted even higher in the air. “There is always something that doesn’t scan or that doesn’t work. It is a time suck. Not to mention they fire tons of employees to build those things.”

“And you have to bag your own groceries!” Dorsey said.

“So the part you hate is bagging your own groceries?” Liza teased.

“Among other things.”

“How about this? I’ll take half the groceries, and you take care of the others. The first person bagged and at the exit wins,” Park said.

Liza looked positively gleeful. “What do we win?”

“Let’s focus on if you lose. If you lose, you two will have to do this same thing again tomorrow night but with my favorite food, Korean dumplings.”

“And if we win?” Dorsey asked, liking the sound of “we” on his tongue.

“You get to be right. It sounds like winning is enough for you two,” Park said.

Liza shook her head—unhappy with the terms. “I want you to cook my favorite meal. Butter chicken with garlic naan.”

Dorsey knew that the little fact of Liza’s favorite food would rattle around in his head forever—the way her ice cream memory had. He thought of this little place in London Liza would love—best butter chicken he’d ever tasted.

Park, secure in his own victory, only shrugged. “Bet.”

Liza turned and raced toward lane four, holding Dorsey’s hand to pull him along. Dorsey filed this date away. The first time we held hands was . . .