“I’m not thinking about that yet. Still getting adjusted after the move.” What I didn’t say was that thoughts of the future sent me spiraling into the pain of the past. I couldn’t get a job because of what happened, not without lying. I couldn’t make plans without risking a panic attack. My mind was a rat in a maze with an electric shock at every dead end. I spent every minute “not-thinking” about things.

Now my silence had gone on too long, but Elizabeth let me off the hook. As she deftly unwrapped the foil, revealing browned rolls, she said, “You should take your time getting settled. But when you’re ready, there are lots of galleries in EaDo, the arts district ‘east of downtown.’ Didn’t you work in a museum?”

The expression on my face felt like a grimace, but I hoped it was appropriate. “Yes. And you, what do you do?”

She smiled, lifting the entire mass of rolls into a waiting bread basket, then flipping the end of an embroidered linen towel over the neat stack. “I was with an interior design firm in Toronto, but I haven’t picked anything up here in Houston. I got an offer from a place downtown, but the commute would have killed me. I’m thinking about starting something out here, picking up a few small design jobs, taking things slowly.”

“So you’re allowed to work here?” I blurted out, then my cheeks grew hot. “I mean, with Wyatt’s visa and everything?”

To my relief, she laughed. “I am. At least right now. They changed the rules, but they could always change them back.”

How similar was interior design to art history? Maybe I could go into business with Elizabeth. As I followed her to the table, I noticed details like her cookbooks, bright, vibrant, and arranged so the contrasting colors were next to each other—lemon yellow, cilantro green, tomato red, white with cobalt-blue letters—and a polished wooden bowl of oranges on the counter just far enough away to seem casually placed. If there had been an orange cookbook instead of a yellow one, would Elizabeth have put lemons in the bowl?

She set the bread on the table and turned around, taking in my empty wineglass. “Let me top you up.”

The tannins were puckering the back of my throat, but I nodded and let her take my glass. “Thank you.” I had to say something else, something interesting. “Did you grow up around here?” Stupid. I knew she was Canadian. We had literally just discussed the visa situation. “I mean, had you ever been to the States before?”

As she deftly twisted the wine stopper out of the bottle, she said, “I grew up outside of Manitoba. This is the furthest south I’ve ever lived, but we visited Disneyland once, when I was little. How about you? Where’s your family?”