“You look so gorge,” she says. “Gotta take a pic.” She snaps a Polaroid and hangs it on her wall. “Be home by ten,” she says jokingly.

“Sure, Mom,” I respond. “I won’t be late.”

Conversation with Alex is so easy and effortless. We talk about everything. Liberal politics, what it’s like being a student of color on campus, our upbringings. Alex is from a middle-class family in Los Angeles. His family owns a restaurant, where he’ll work over the summer. He tells me he’s come across all the stereotypes here: people assuming he’s in a gang, doesn’t speak good English, or is a farmworker, “but I didn’t know I would be romantically isolated also.”

“I mean I knew dating here would be hard, but I didn’t know it would be this bad. I feel like an angsty teenager who’s never gonna get laid.”

“Well, I’m a virgin.”

“Aww, that is precious. You’re a real doll. Are you saving yourself for marriage?”

“No. I just can’t find someone who’s not gay that likes me back.… Well, one of my good friends likes me, but I’m not feeling him. I wish I did, but it’s just not there for me.”

“The way of the world, dear.”

I feel like I’ve known Alex forever. There is no awkward phase of trying to figure each other out, we just click. We eat four baskets of bread between us. I finish mine first, then try to steal some of his, but he playfully smacks my hand. Molly’s has white paper table coverings with a cup of crayons in the middle. We draw pictures and play hangman. When Alex tells me Will Smith gave a talk at his high school, we sing the theme song to Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. We both know all the words.

I don’t want the night to end. I knew it could be like this. That connecting intimately with someone is the best feeling in the world, even if I know it’s not intimate for him.

In true date fashion, he pays the bill. I follow him out to grab tea at the Hopkins café across the street.

“I never liked tea before I came here,” I say, ordering a chamomile-and-lavender infusion. “Now I can’t get enough. You know, some say tea can open a portal to another dimension.”

“Oh yea, who?”

“Some.”

“OK, weirdo,” he says, laughing. “Aww, look, honey,” he says, changing the subject, “this is the table where we first met. Remember you had the ganache and I had the cheesecake,” he continues, pretending like we’re a real couple.

“I’ll never forget that night, dumpling.”

“Gag. Why do people call each other food? Like are you going to kiss me or eat me?”

“I like it,” I say, sipping my tea. “It’s endearing.”