It turned out he had spent a year in Italy as an undergraduate, but the stories he liked to tell, the ones that made his face open up, had to do with his family. He had a brother in law school who made a career out of flaunting expectations, a whole town of relatives in Georgia and another, aging contingent on the Upper West Side, but he was closer to his mother’s people down south. The apartment building he lived in on Morningside had been in his father’s family since 1910. The fact that he had accepted a tenured position at Princeton starting in the fall slipped out sideways when she asked him if he thought of moving back to Georgia.

And all the while they kept falling into short silences, looking at each other and smiling. Never talking about the months they had just spent circling each other; not needing to.

Then she had enough of food and of waiting, too.

“Rivera says—”

“Rivera?”

“My roommate. My friend. With the”—she swirled her hand around her head—“embroidered headscarf?”

“With Gloria in the kitchen.”

“Yes, that’s the one. Rivera says we’ve got a month at most, but it will be good while it lasts.”

He was trying not to smile. “What leads Rivera to such a hasty conclusion?”

Angie was flustered now and felt the first throb of remorse. “Probably she was overly optimistic.”

That was the first time she saw a particular look come into his eyes, a narrowing that meant he had plans. Her hand was on the table and he picked it up, pressed her fingers to his own wrist. Muscular forearms—should have gone out for crew—and cool skin; she felt herself jerk. She said, “Your pulse is racing.”

“Oh, yeah. I got the Kentucky Derby going on.”

That flashbulb of a smile; she had to look away.

On the street in front of the restaurant he caught her hand again, pressed her up against the wall to take her pulse, and then he kissed her. Ivy League and old money, but he was good at it. Angie kissed him back, and meant it.

They walked back to Angie’s apartment on West Eighth Street, no sign of Rivera or Gloria of the Chanel suit, and thank God; Angie had never been so nervous or so sure. But still she went first thing to the refrigerator and stood in its cold light, one arm on the open door, feeling him behind her and afraid to turn around. Gooseflesh on her back and arms and the insides of her thighs.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Genuflecting in front of the leftovers. It’s an Italian thing. Want something to drink?” She took a can of beer and turned to touch his cheek with it. He started and covered her hand with his own, moved the can to her throat and down.