My new favorite thing in life was going to Harris’s after a long day at work and making dinner together with soft music playing in the background and drinking sophisticated wine and talking about everything—the new story idea I had, how far I had gotten into my research, his funny miscommunications with a new overseas client, the state of the environment and the world, and our separate friends who were quickly becoming our mutual friends. I really, truly, solidly looked forward to doing those things without having to pack an overnight bag. But did I love him? I couldn’t tell. I felt like he was a good friend that was also super hot and who I liked to sleep with. Maybe that was love. Stupid Thad, I thought. I couldn’t even tell if I was in love anymore, for heaven’s sake.

I looked at Harris again, studied the lines in his forehead, which were deeper when he was being sincere, the boyish sandy blond of his hair, how adorable he looked lounging in his Peter Millar athletic wear.

“Babe, look,” he said. “I get it. The South is different, your parents are old fashioned. Maybe I don’t understand it completely, but I’m trying to. All I know is that we’re good together. We want the same things. I can tell them with you, if you want, but it would be a shame to ruin something great over some outdated idea of what a relationship should look like.”

Maybe the salt air made me feel wistful and romantic, or maybe it was how sincere he was. But in that moment, I decided firmly that being with him—in the way that worked for us—was worth the scrutiny of my family. I was thirty-five years old, for heaven’s sake. “I’ll tell them now,” I said. I could give them time to get used to the idea of us moving in sometime, pretend it existed in a hazy and far-off future.

He picked up my hand and kissed it. “You still have a tan line where your ring used to be.”

That was true. “I know. I should probably get something to fill up the space.”

I didn’t love how that sounded. And I had to wonder if filling up space was exactly, precisely what I was doing with Harris.

Three hours later, I was kissing him goodbye, saying, “Are you sure you’re okay if I go? I feel just terrible leaving you here.”

Harris had a conference call in China that couldn’t be rescheduled, so he was going to take a Benadryl, go to sleep now, at seven, so he could get up at two, take the call, grab a quick nap, and be on the dock at five. Bless the man’s sweet heart. I felt awful. But he had to go fishing. Even though the ridicule would be significant, it was nothing compared to what would happen if he didn’t go. I had left out the part about how the prize money, depending on the size and number of the fish caught, could be upwards of a million dollars. He was nervous enough when he just thought this was for fun.