“Of course. Only the reservation at La Rouge is for two. And their dress code is quite”—she gives me a quick sideways glance as if in a tacit apology—“quite strict.” All three of us take an appraisal of my outfit. I’m not wearing my usual gym shorts, but my jeans and T-shirt combo are hardly black-tie.

I take in Elizabeth’s outfit for the first time and realize she’s dressed up too, sporting a khaki skirt and an argyle sweater rather than her usual baggy jeans and circus-tent-sized T-shirt. To top it all off, she’s got a delicate string of white pearls around her neck. She’s wearing a costume, a caricature of herself.

Elizabeth lets go of my hand and starts in with the fidgeting, the telltale sign that she’s nervous. Or feeling guilty. Or both. Think you’re the first one to tell me I’m not good enough, Beth? Not even close. Think you’re going to hurt my feelings? My skin is thicker than that.

You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.

“Oh, nonsense. I am sure we could work something out with the maître d’,” Richard chimes in unconvincingly.

He’s politely going through the motions of trying to include me, happy in the knowledge that it isn’t actually going to happen. I’m not going to trek all the way downtown to some fancy restaurant just so some snotty waiter can turn up his nose at me before sending me away. Fuck that.

“No, Richard. I’m afraid Beth is quite right.” I use her father’s nickname for her, but don’t like the way it feels in my mouth.

She may be his Beth, but she’s my Goose.

“I’m ill-prepared for dining out. But please don’t let me spoil your plans with my rude interruption.” I’ve always hated this fake-politeness shit, but that’s the game we’re playing. I take her hand and give a squeeze to let her know I’m admitting defeat, but not without a parting blow.

“Give me a call tonight, would you, sweetie? So I know you’re home safe? You know how I worry.” Her eyes are closed and she almost appears pained. Does she seriously feel bad for me right now? I place another gentle kiss on her temple, expecting to see a victorious smile or a smug glint in her eyes, but I don’t.

“Pizza!” she shouts randomly while her hands shoot up in the air like she just won a game of bingo no one else knew we were playing. Richard and I both turn to her, completely confused. “You could make us pizza. We have all the ingredients you brought last time.” She’s talking to me, but looking at her dad sheepishly, as if embarrassed to admit I’ve been in her apartment before.