I glance around at the hole-in-the-wall eatery that seems like the last type of restaurant Jamie Westenberg would ever come to. I pictured him eating fancy fine dining amid classical piano music and clinking crystal. Instead, we’re at Pho Ever, a place I can only describe as happy chaos, with its mismatched tables and vibrant tapestries on the walls, the soothing scent of cooking spices and incense thickening the air.

He sits back in his seat, crossing his arms. “Is it so impossible to believe I found a fun spot like this, all by myself?”

“Yes,” I tell him honestly.

That gets me a solid-gold Jamie smile, small and crooked, hard-earned. “Well, you’re right. I found it through Anh at work. Her uncle owns the place, and she treated the office to a delivery lunch from here a few months back. There was no going anywhere else for Vietnamese after that. Usually I order takeout, but tonight seemed right to make an exception.”

“Why?”

Jamie removes his glasses, pulling a small fabric square from his shirt pocket and meticulously wiping the lenses. “I thought it was something you’d enjoy.”

“You picked this for me?”

Replacing his glasses, he meets my eyes. “Yes.”

He says it so simply. Why doesn’t it feel simple? Why does it turn the world cotton candy pink as happiness hums through my limbs?

“Do you like it here?” he asks.

“I do.” I smile. “It’s exactly something I’d pick.”

“Good,” he says quietly. Peering down at his pho, he glides his spoon through the broth.

After a moment of silence, I clear my throat and set down my spoon. “So we’re here to get familiar. Should we swap some more core info? Since I ducked out early last time?”

“That’s fine,” he says. “You first.”

“Why me?”

He peers up at me and presses his glasses up his nose. “Because it’s your idea.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Okay, so you know about my sisters. You know I went to school for art.”

He nods.

“I’ve lived in the city my whole life,” I continue. “I like city living, its familiarity, but I traveled some of Europe for a stretch with my younger sister, Kate, and it was the most stressful, fun thing I’ve ever done, so I think I’d like to travel more down the road. My favorite season is fall, my favorite food is sugar—”

Jamie sighs and shakes his head.

I give him a winning smile. “I love blasting music and drawing. Oh, and I’ll throw in a fear. I’m terrified of bats.”

“Parents?” he prompts.

“My dad, Bill, is pretty mellow, a retired literature professor. My mom, Maureen, is a master gardener, volunteer librarian, and can hold her whiskey like no other—”

“Wait.” Jamie leans in. “Your father’s name is Bill Wilmot. As in—”

“William Wilmot.” I have a spoonful of pho. “Yep. Isn’t that cruel?”