I whip out my phone to Google it and… wow, it turns out tomatoes really are fruit. Damn. “I can’t believe it! How could tomatoes be fruit?”

“What I can’t believe is you didn’t know tomatoes are fruit.”

“Yeah, well.” I give his shoe a gentle kick under the table, which makes him smile. “You didn’t even know Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston broke up.”

“So I don’t follow the recent tabloid news. So what?”

“That’s not recent—their divorce was over a decade ago! Since then, he got married to Angelina Jolie, they adopted a bunch of babies, and then they broke up! You’re one full marriage behind.”

“You sure know a lot about Brad Pitt’s love life,” he says as he kicks me back under the table.

And then we’re kind of playing footsie under the table. I slide off my shoe and get it up his pants leg, and he reaches down to grasp my bare calf. Our eyes meet across the table, and the smile he gives me makes me tingle all over. Shelley always talks about how her husband doesn’t “excite” her anymore, but I can’t relate. Sam still gets me all hot and bothered. I can’t imagine that ever changing. I’m even looking forward to him getting old because I think he’ll be sexy with lines around his eyes and silver hair.

As soon as we’re done eating, Sam wants to exchange presents. He’s more excited over this than an adult should rightfully be. I’ve got his present stuffed into my purse, and presumably, my present is in his jacket pocket. Which means it’s something small. Maybe jewelry.

I hope it’s jewelry.

Sure enough, he pulls a rectangular box from his coat and slides it across the table to me. He smiles when he sees the square box I hand him. He lifts it, evaluating its weight.

“This doesn’t feel like electronics,” he says.

“It’s not.”

“Is it… socks?” He grins. “You know how much I like socks.”

He’s joking—referring to a time when we went to my parents’ house for Christmas, and their gift to Sam was a pair of fancy socks. This was, I suspect, my mother’s not-so-subtle way of saying she wasn’t excited about our upcoming nuptials. I was mortified by that one, but he thought it was funny. He still wears them. He calls them his Christmas socks.

“Yeah, but they’re nice socks,” I say. “Prada socks.”

“Ooh, Prada socks. This I gotta see.”

He rips off the wrapping paper and pulls off the lid to the box. His eyes widen when he sees what’s inside. “It’s… a tank top?”

“It’s an apron!”