“I don’t know how you do it,” I tell him when he slips back into his seat and signals for the waiter to bring the check. “You can strike up a conversation with anyone.”

“It’s not magic. I told him my uncle ran a restaurant in Connecticut and I know how tough it is.”

“Do you know how tough it is to run a restaurant?”

“Must be. My uncle never looked happy,” Adam says. “I’m assuming it was the restaurant that was pissing him off.”

“Makes good sense.” I shrug. “So things are going well?”

“A week in and no major scandals,” he says. “You should have seen the way Vigo grilled me before he joined the campaign. Made me swear on a Bible that I had no skeletons in the closet. I told him about that one college party and the weed, but he said that was forgivable.”

“So nothing to worry about then.”

“Yeah. They’ll seek, but they shall not find.”

“Do you really think they’ll try to dig stuff up?”

“Depends on how tight the race gets. I’ve sworn everybody around me is clean too, so if you have any illegal side hustles, I don’t want to know.”

He’s joking, but my stomach drops. I couldn’t get my thoughts straight over dinner and need some quiet to figure out how to handle this. Adam suggests we go for a stroll. Outside, I tie my hair into a messy bun and tuck my long bangs behind my ears. The evening air feels good on my neck. Adam checks his phone and taps out a few quick replies. It’s impressive to see what he’s done in such a short time, how naturally this all comes to him.

We wander into Bryant Park, past two men playing chess and a mom chasing a giggling toddler. Adam stops and holds his phone at arm’s length. He puts an arm around me and snaps a photo of us, him beaming and me with a surprised smile. He kisses my cheek and leads me to a vacant bench.

Squirrels bounce and run at our feet. A group of teenagers stands in a huddle. Two girls in thin jackets pretend not to feel the cold. A woman in a hijab walks past them with her husband.

Adam takes a deep breath.

“Aryana, I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to do this. I think we need some direction. We’ve been dancing around this for a while now, and maybe we should just take that next step.”

He can’t possibly mean what I think he means. We’re facing each other, each of us with one foot on the ground. His arm hangs over the back of the bench.

“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘next step,’” I say. I did not see this conversation coming.