“It’s so empty,” I said.

“Well, it is winter.”

I said I was hungry, and Alex chose a restaurant in a small elegant hotel, dark wood, velvet-covered banquettes, and dim lighting. We settled into a booth, and Alex ordered wine. Me, sparkling water. I told her I’d been glad she caught me, and she said, “Did I…catch you at something?” I knew she was kidding but couldn’t help thinking about the stolen page in my backpack.

She gave me an odd look, head tilted, assessing. “Are you growing a beard or mustache?”

“Mostly out of neglect.” Rubbing a hand across my chin and cheeks, I added, “I’ll shave if you don’t like it,” then said I had missed seeing her at the library.

“I missed it too,” she said.

It? The library? Not me?

“How’s your research going?” she asked.

I thought about the things I’d read and what I still didn’t know. “Okay,” I said.

“Is it so top secret that you can’t talk about it?”

I told her it was nothing like that and admitted I was a little tense, worried about my teaching job, how I would have to come up with something to ensure my tenure.

“Publish or perish?” she asked.

“I guess—or get a show.” Saying it aloud made my worry take shape and feel tangible. I switched the topic to the Brancacci Chapel and Masaccio’s frescoes. Alex said she’d never seen them in person and wished she had.

“We could go together,” I said, and she smiled without saying yes or no.

She switched from wine to grappa.

I stayed with sparkling water.

She seemed to relax, asked questions about my life, which I didn’t mind. I was glad she wanted to know more about me. I told her how I’d been a terrible student but had “found myself” in art school, where I worked in the cafeteria to pay off my scholarship. “Nothing you ever had to do, I’m sure.”

“What? You think I’m a spoiled rich kid with a perfect life?”

Before I could say I was sorry, she said, “You have no idea,” pouted a moment, then stopped just as quickly and asked me more about art school.

I told her it was the first time I had ever really cared about anything, which got me thinking about all it had taken to become an artist—the studio visits and gallery hunting, all the rejections, how I’d balanced three adjunct teaching jobs while working as a studio assistant to a successful artist, everything I had put at risk by coming here.

We shared a bowl of pasta, most of which I ate.

When Alex finished her grappa, she said she had to go, but this time, I reached for her hand and held her there.

“It’s late,” she said, a mix of emotions I couldn’t read traveling across her face like fast-moving clouds. “There’s the library tomorrow, and my apartment still needs organizing and—”

I leaned across the table and silenced her with a kiss.