But it occurred to her as an adult that her upbringing—one in which attending an Ivy League school was an unprecedented surprise—had its advantages. She pictured young Danial, whose accomplishments always seemed so inevitable, and realized the extraordinary effort it must have required to stand out in the sea of professional and academic triumph that was his family. Even this version of him today—the straight-A student of the tour group—was a callback to that younger self. And each time that image flashed in her mind, her heart swelled to such a painful size that she could only touch him, grounding herself in the physicality of him.

She stopped the both of them, letting the group walk ahead as they carved out a quiet spot for themselves. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she craned him down and kissed him with a desperate urgency. It was one of those kisses that seemed to silence the world around it, the kind usually reserved for ardent teenagers. And she could feel his smile against her mouth, the bag holding the enamel comb he’d bought for his mother bumping against her as their bodies pressed together.

“What was that for?” he asked when they broke apart, bringing a hand to his lips as if to verify their reality.

“I’m just happy to be here with you,” she said, simply. It wasn’t nearly as coy as what she had intended to say, but it was true.

A small breath escaped him. “We don’t have to finish the tour, you know. We can get lunch or something.”

“I’m happy to stay on the tour, really.” She nodded her head for emphasis. “I’m just feeling weirdly nostalgic today, I guess.”

“Nostalgic enough to play chess later?”

“Oh, god,” she laughed. “Maybe—maybe. One thing at a time.”

“You’re much better than you think, you know. Or, at least, you were.”

Her eyebrow raised involuntarily.

“Don’t explain my game to me, or I’ll start telling you about your performance on the pétanque court.”

“I’m great at pétanque.”

“You have never lost to me by less than a 30% margin.”

The rhythm of their voices had taken on that familiar and competitive pitter-patter, an almost piano-like staccato.

“But,” she continued, moving them out of the way slightly for a group taking a picture, “you play very graciously. Every throw has a nice measure to it.”

“Thank you. Am I allowed to compliment your chess game now?”

“Sure.”

He took a moment, considering the precise framing of his praise.

“You always balance development and early aggression, without blindly following opening lines.”

Her entire body warmed at this, at the almost somatic way she longed for his words of affirmation. “Well, thank you, but I was always just kind of along for the ride. I’ve never come close to winning unless you start with a massive handicap.”