She was sitting at the end of another patio full of diners, this one far more upscale than the scene of the phone call with her mother. Her waiter swept by again and she shook her head, offering an apology in basic Greek and indicating that she was waiting for a friend. Paul had requested they meet at this place—it had “the best grilled fagri on the island,” he’d insisted, as if she cared about fish right now—and Alex knew better than to even glance at an appetizer without him. He had sent her a flurry of text messages while she was talking to Elena, asking her to meet for lunch and stressing that it was “nothing scary.”

It was something he had learned to do early on with her—specify whether a looming conversation was cause for anxiety—and she had rarely appreciated the gesture as much as she did now. And in truth, she was glad he had asked to see her, as being alone would inevitably mean stewing in the aftermath of all the horrible conversations she couldn’t seem to stop having. Seeing Paul would give her at least one opportunity to speak thoughtfully, instead of defaulting to her usual defensive stance when things got uncomfortable.

Her nail scraped under the remaining spot of adhesive on the water bottle, removing it entirely and setting it next to her plate. In an effort to keep her hands busy, she pulled her phone from her bag and flicked open to MOONBEAM, which she’d immediately downloaded after Bee sent her the name. Her words about retreating into a shell had been echoing in Alex’s mind for days, but in light of her fight with her mother, they felt downright deafening.

As she scrolled, her free hand mindlessly dragged the ramekin on the table toward her, stabbing one of its olives with a toothpick. There was something comforting about astrology as a lens through which to analyze oneself, the plausible deniability of it. The salty olive in her mouth felt like popcorn at a good movie, her mind completely enraptured by the insight the app had to offer, the prism it gave her to understand her actions, which were sometimes baffling even to herself.

She looked up from an article about Cancers and attachment theory and spotted Paul from across the square, looking every bit the jet-setting American in his crisp white shirt and pleated khaki shorts, inseam just a few inches higher than Guy would have wanted it. Catching her eye, he waved, his dark green aviators positively gleaming in the sunlight.

“What is this?” he asked, slipping into his seat, kissing her cheek, and picking up her water bottle in one perfect motion. “Water? Ugh, no.”

He flicked a hand up toward a passing waiter, ordering a bottle of dry white wine in unapologetic English.