Lincoln grinned. He barked out a laugh. It had felt bad for a minute, to think she hadn’t known him—that she wouldn’t know him anywhere—but now it felt a little better . . .

“Is he being creepy?” Jennifer had replied.

“I don’t think so. I’m trying not to look at him.”

A new text popped up. “Beth, are you okay? Is he bothering you? Tell him you’re pregnant, and he’ll leave you alone.”

Lincoln stopped grinning.

“What?” Beth asked. She turned the phone toward herself, and her face fell. “Oh,” she said. “No, that’s a joke.”

“Oh,” he said.

“I’m not pregnant,” she said.

He nodded.

“My period’s just late.”

“Your period’s late?”

“Yeah, but not . . .”

“So that isn’t why you wanted to go out tonight . . .”

“Oh God—no.” Her phone buzzed. She pulled her other hand away from him to furiously text Jennifer back. Then she dropped the phone into her purse and looked at him. “No. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I was just talking to Jennifer. About periods and stuff. Menopause. Virgin, mother, crone, et cetera. Not—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up like that.”

He shook his head. “It’s—” He touched her cheek. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Just . . . I really wish my period would start. So that I could stop worrying about it.” She laughed. Tearful. “Or I wish it would stop altogether. So that I could stop worrying about it.”

“It’s ‘maiden,’ ” he said.

“Maiden?”

“The three faces of the goddess. Maiden, mother, crone.”

“The goddess?” Beth said.

He pushed his fingertips into her hair. “The goddess.”

“Is that something you know from Dungeons & Dragons?”

“And religious history.”

“I thought it was just a way to sort women . . .”

“You can’t sort women like that. Women are all three.”

Beth snorted softly and looked down. “Not me.”

Lincoln pulled her closer to him, cradling the back of her neck. He rested his head against hers. She smelled like coconut. “It wasn’t hope,” he said.

“When?”

“Just now. It wasn’t hope. It was surprise.”

“I’m sorry about it anyway. The confusion.”

He pressed his eyes closed. “I didn’t think that was . . . a thing that could happen.”

“I don’t think it is,” Beth said.

He kissed her hair. “Were your hopes up?”

She huffed softly. “Always, I guess. Against all odds.”

Lincoln found a way to hold her even closer—one arm around her waist, one hand on her neck. “I like that about you,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Hope. Against all odds.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but it’s getting a little pathetic.”

“Would you really want . . . that? Now?”

“I . . .” She took a big breath, and when she exhaled, she sank deeper into his chest. “I’m forty-nine,” she said.

Lincoln nodded.