“He probably got lost on his way from the room to the bathroom,” Tisha tells me.

“I thought all rooms had en suites?”

“Exactly my point.”

The class is open to more than just our party. It requires working in pairs, assuming couplehood as the default state, as though the world and its activities are built for two. Discomfort in all social situations is the toll loveless singles must pay for not conforming to its demands.

“People in happy relationships love to rub our noses in it,” Nyota grumbles.

She and I, naturally, pair up. Also, just as naturally: Diego and Tisha, and Rue and Eli. Avery and Conor, too. So natural, the two of them don’t even seem to need a conversation on the topic. Conor takes a seat, and Avery plops down next to him. She has a clean bill of health from Dr. Cacciari—who, given the frequency of our calls, may be considering setting up a tent in the citrus grove.

I hope Eli’s tipping him well.

Making pasta, as it turns out, is not difficult. And yet, Nyota and I are terrible at it. So much so, the instructor makes an example of us in front of the class. Not once, not twice, and not even thrice.

“Can you believe this asshole?” Nyota whispers furiously. “Where is this Mayageddon I hear so much about? Shouldn’t she be turning green? Flipping the table?”

“Sadly, she only comes up during explicitly framed competitions.” I take a sip of my second negroni, working toward a nice buzz. “There has to be a trigger—tallied points, a race. That kind of stuff.”

“Okay, sir,” Nyota tells the instructor the fourth time he approaches, likely to show the other students how not to create a nest of tagliatelle. “I realize that you may perceive us as easy targets, but this girl right here? She splits electrons and blasts them into the atmosphere.” I may have no idea what Nyota does at work, but that’s obviously mutual. “I am able to list the world’s fifty top assets by market cap, including ETFs, crypto, and precious metals. So stop treating us like we’re the village fools, and show some respect.”

“I don’t understand.” The instructor’s English is serviceable, but his vocabulary appears to be mostly carbohydrate adjacent. “What you say?”

She leans toward him. “Step. Away. From my tagliatelle.”

He recoils. Nyota’s glare, clearly, is a universal language.

The worst part comes later: sitting outside, on the restaurant’s patio. As a piano man croons an Italian ballad, we get to eat the fruits of our labor.

“I didn’t think pasta could taste bad,” I tell Nyota, washing it all down with my third negroni.

She grimaces into her wine. “And yet.”

But after I come back from the restroom, I notice that the flavor and the consistency have vastly improved. It even looks better.

“Hark switched his plate with yours when he thought I wasn’t paying attention,” Nyota whispers at me, her told you so stare even more pronounced than usual. “Totally the act of someone who doesn’t want you. Please, tell me again how I imagined the way he stares at you—”