“By the way,” she finally said, breaking the spell his hands had cast with a change of subject, “Dev texted me this morning.” She kept her voice chipper, apparently still in guidance counselor mode.

“About what?”

“He told me not to be mad at you about last night. That it was the Italian guy’s fault.”

A light grin of smugness began to form on his face. “I told you.”

“Yes, you did. So, I’m sorry if I was a little harsh.”

“It’s okay.” He smiled wider this time.

There was another lull as the next course arrived, the boat bobbing almost imperceptibly in the water as a fluffy white cloud passed over the sun, briefly casting them in a second of coolness. From the end of the table, Melanie clapped her hands to call their attention. Danial and Alex both turned to face her.

“For your main course, the chef has prepared a seared monkfish filet with a fresh herb sauce, accompanied by lyonnaise potatoes and roast broccolini. May I?”

As she leaned in to pour the sauce, the two of them locked eyes across the table. Involuntarily, a smile began to pull at the corners of her mouth: timid, at first, but upon seeing his reaction she let her grin break wide, falling into the easy laughter of shared nostalgia.

“You remember,” she said, as Melanie wiped the spout of the tiny sauce pitcher with a cloth napkin and left the table.

“Of course I do,” he replied, picking up his fork. “But the real question is: Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Remember what oceans monkfish are native to?” She could see the impish joy in his eyes, even from behind his sunglasses.

“How dare you.” She whipped at him playfully over the table with her napkin.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Across from her, he cut himself a small bite of monkfish, raising one of his full eyebrows in suspicion.

“You want to know if I remember your little lesson.”

“I do.”

“Well, you’re lucky.” She arranged a forkful of fish, avoiding his eyes but keeping her tone light. “I remember that day. I remember a lot.”

His voice suddenly became very serious. “I remember everything.”

The knife clinked gently against his plate as he set it down, considering her from across the table. She could tell he was waiting for her to speak, or move, or do anything besides stare in response. She breathed in slowly, deciding what she wanted to say—what she even wanted the outcome of this strangely perfect lunch to be.

Before she could speak, he resumed, his voice barely above a whisper: “So, do you think we should actually do it, then?”

“Do… do what?” Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she grabbed her water glass for a long sip.