“Broody stare-downs, singing in bleachers, poem reciting, making out with paint. But don’t worry,” Jamie says. “Our paint date is as far as I’m taking my inspiration. Poetry’s not my strength. And serenading you would be cringey. I can’t carry a tune to save my life.”

“No more broody stare-downs, either. Meeting you was one long lesson in the pain of a broody stare. It was not romantic.”

“What is she talking about, Cornelius? That was our meet-cute.”

I snort, throwing open the door of the bathroom and looking both ways to ensure there aren’t eavesdroppers nearby. “Tell Cornelius, try meet-disaster.”

“I refuse. He’s on my side now. I gave him apples.”

“Wow, buying his love, huh?”

“Fortifying our bond.” I can see his eyebrow arching, his serious expression holding until mine cracks. “Cornelius told me, ten years from now, our meet-disaster will be cute, the trauma dimmed by time and nostalgia. We’ll tell the kids how I could barely string a sentence together and you spilled alcohol on me—not once but twice in one night. You’ll tell it better, so I’ll listen while you do, covered in paint splatters from your latest masterpiece, love for me still shining in your eyes.”

I come to an abrupt stop in the store, stunned by the picture he’s drawn with one of his rare forays into playfulness. Panic squeezes my chest. How is that so easy to envision? Why does it sink into my thoughts and settle with a heavy sigh of If only?

“That . . .” I bite my lip. Hard. Long enough so I don’t blurt something absurd like, That sounds absolutely perfect. “That’s cute. You should say that later around everyone. When you’re looking at me all moony-eyed and someone decides it’s socially acceptable to ask when we’re having kids.”

“Talking kids already!” Sula calls from the office.

“Gotta go,” I tell Jamie. “They have ears everywhere.”

“Cornelius reminds you that on your walk home, please stay with your friends and watch out for uneven pavement.”

I smile. “Tell Cornelius I’ll be careful.”

“Good,” he says. “See you soon.”

When I set down my phone on the display table, Toni snatches it up and stares at the home screen, featuring the photo of Jamie and me at the conservatory. “I can’t handle you two.”

Sula appears through the doorway in her rolling office chair. “Is there a new pic?”

“No!” I tell her. “You two need to get lives.”

Toni just wanders over to Sula with my phone, so they can gush over my pictures again.