“Nothing.” The world is now a grayish blank canvas behind the scarf. My view of Jessie is gone. But I can still feel her next to me. The pull between us is there, even when I can’t see her.

“Ready?” I ask.

I reach for the plate and pick up the first truffle. I hear her do the same.

“Ready.”

I reach out and find her lips. I hold the chocolate to her mouth. She opens and carefully wraps her lips around my fingers and the chocolate. She pulls it free, running her teeth over my skin. I shiver at the sensation. She lets out a quiet sound of pleasure.

Then it’s my turn. She holds the chocolate against my lips and rubs it over my bottom lip. I take it from her hand, softly as a gentle kiss. The dark chocolate flavor explodes in my mouth. I bite into it.

It’s chilies. Chilies and dark chocolate ganache.

Jessie shifts next to me and I hear her let out a soft breath.

“Heat,” she says.

“Passion,” I say.

“Complexity,” she says in a careful, neutral voice.

“Longing,” I say.

I hear her grab her glass of water and take a long swallow. “Let’s try the next,” she says, ignoring my descriptions.

I take a drink to clear the flavor of spiced, heated longing, and reach for the next chocolate.

When I hold the truffle out to her, she takes it with a perfunctory, impersonal bite. I follow her lead and take the chocolate from her fingers with my teeth. The flavors are dark chocolate, bergamot and black tea. They coat my tongue and fill me with a nostalgic warmth.

“Tea,” she says.

I smile. “When you first gave me The Horse and His Boy and I read the Narnia series, I imagined having tea just like they did. Strong and piping hot, at a table with all your friends. I imagined having tea with you too. I was twelve, we talked about books and drank hot tea. In my mind, it tasted just like this.”

The flavor of warm tea lingers on my tongue. I smile at the memory of my twelve-year-old-self wanting to have tea with Jessie.

“What did we say at your imaginary tea party?” Her voice is soft and there’s a whisper of curiosity and connection.

I haven’t thought about those imaginings in years. I never lingered on things I knew couldn’t come true.

“At first, we talked about what books we were reading. When I told you The Voyage of the Dawn Treader was my favorite book, you made a compelling argument that brought me back over to The Horse and His Boy.”

“Did I?” she asks, a smile in her voice. Then, “What did you like about The Voyage of the Dawn Treader?”