“Huh.” What was on Fifty-First Street? What had she been doing all night? And since when was she hanging out with Beckett?

“Yeah,” he said. “She told me your dad bailed on dinner. And she said that she broke your phone, and you guys got separated—”

“Kat said she broke my phone?” I interrupted, dumbfounded. This might have been the biggest revelation of the last few minutes. The whole time I’d known her, nothing was ever Kat’s fault.

“Yeah, she said she was waiting and waiting for you on the subway platform. She thought you’d left her behind, but I said it had to be a misunderstanding.…”

I sat back against the booth. So Kat hadn’t just taken the opportunity to leave as soon as I’d gotten on the train without her—and she certainly hadn’t missed the train on purpose. While I’d been dealing with muggers with fake knives, she’d thought I’d gone on without her. She’d been waiting for me, thinking I’d been the one to leave her behind.

So it had all been a misunderstanding—on both our parts. It gave me some hope in terms of us fixing things. I knew we were going to have work to do—we’d have to deal with everything we said during our fight—but things no longer felt quite so dire. There was a tiny bit of light at the end of the tunnel.

Before I could tell Beckett any of this, Todd came hustling back to the table, his face slightly red. “Okay,” he said, giving us a nervous smile. “So it seems like the most expensive drinks are our smoothies and juices. However, they’re not on the dinner menu. I spoke to Chef to see if she’d make an exception, but—”

“That’s okay,” I said, shaking my head. I looked at Beckett and smiled, for what felt like the first time in a while. “He’ll take a Roy Rogers.” Beckett rolled his eyes at me, but smiled. On one of our first dates, he’d ordered this, and I’d had no idea what he was talking about, until he explained to me that he’d been drinking them since he was little. His older sister, Emily, would always order a Shirley Temple, and though he liked them, his six-year-old masculine pride meant he couldn’t abide a pink drink. So a waitress had brought him a Roy Rogers—Coke, grenadine, way too many maraschino cherries—and from that moment he was hooked.

“Oh,” Todd said, looking a little bit thrown by this reversal. “So no smoothies. And you want a Roy…” His voice faded out, a question in it somewhere, and Beckett and I nodded. “Sorry… but can I see your ID?”

I stared at Todd. “What for?”