We drove—in my mother’s car I was forbidden from using—out of Manhasset, ending up at a rundown bowling alley halfway to Boston. We ate greasy French fries and drank cherry Cokes. Fitz was such a terrible bowler they brought out kiddie bumpers for the gutters. The innocence of the memory is terribly bittersweet. That was one of the last days Fitz and I spent together before he drifted toward football and away from our friendship.

“You improved,” I tell him after he loses the second game. “You went from god awful to moderately bad.”

Fitz holds up a hand, showing its impressive span, and wiggles his fingers. “I’m bordering on excellent. Could use a custom ball though.”

I try not to give Fitz the pleasure of eyeing his thick fingers for more than a second or two. He’s got enough going for him as it is. No need to add to his ego.

“I think you’re mistaking excellent for competitive,” I tease before tipping my head toward the bathrooms.

Fitz points over his shoulder. “Meet you at the bar.”

Minutes later, I enter the partition of the bar area and immediately stop between the high top tables.

Behind me, Agent Samuels also halts. “Ma’am?”

I’ve been about one ma’am away from a total meltdown since the security detail started, but that agitation is long forgotten, or at least, temporarily displaced. Instead, I’m homing in on the table in the corner, where I make out the top of Fitz’s head covered in his backward baseball cap. The rest of him is obscured by a topknot of blonde hair.

“Ma’am?”

“I’m fine,” I announce.

I might be fine by definition. What I’m not sure of is exactly what to do as I make my way in the direction of Fitz’s table. The only option is to politely slide into my seat. That is, until I come to the table and stop behind the woman, and she makes no effort to turn even as Fitz’s eyes meet mine over her shoulder.

“Oh, I can imagine you’ve been busy,” she says with a hearty laugh. “I hear winning Super Bowls keeps you on your toes.”

I go with the more aggressive approach because I imagine—in a real relationship—I wouldn’t politely sit in my seat and wait for this girl to finish her conversation with my fiancé as I looked over the menu deciding between chicken wing spice levels. And because this entire thing doesn’t exactly sit right with me.

I step around table, and slide onto his lap, expecting Fitz to at least lean back in his chair to make it easier for me, but he’s no help. I’m sandwiched between his front and the shiny wood that now pokes into the bottom of my ribs.