“The sociology of work and industry,” Elizabeth took over. “It was kind of about the history of the workplace as technology and industry changes. I was already thinking about going into corporate interior design. I sat down next to a cute guy who was taking notes on his laptop like his life depended on it. By the end of the first class, he had this look of absolute panic on his face, so I introduced myself and asked if he wanted to study together.”

“When a cute girl offers to translate whatever the hell sociology means, you say yes,” Wyatt added.

“And I kept him.” Elizabeth gave his arm another little squeeze before letting it go and picking up her fork. She speared a thin strip of beef, which sizzled as it hit the cast-iron grill. “How about the two of you?”

“Online,” I said, before Michael could open his mouth. “We met online.”

I remembered the details of his profile like the facts on my own driver’s license. About me: Above-average intelligence and below-average social time. About you: Hoping for same. Perfect date: Ask what we’d like to do, Research and get to know each other, Imagine the possibilities, Plan for the future, Create it together, Test for weakness, Improve every day.

Ask. Research. Imagine. Plan. Create. Test. Improve. Now I knew it as the “Engineering Design Cycle,” but then it had seemed like this guy had the answers I needed, a way to impose order on my crazy life. His profile picture was just the top of his face, like he was peeking over a wall into the frame. It was so weird. But I liked his eyes. And I’d just been on twenty thousand dates with assholes who translated “Love adventure … where shall we go?” as “Totally slutty … let’s do it in your car.”

On our first date, we met at a gastropub, and as soon as I saw Michael, all my nerves melted away. It was so easy. Whatever pseudoromantic ideas I’d had about butterflies in my stomach and the fizziness of falling in love vanished in the enveloping warmth of the absolute comfort I felt with him. On our very first date I forgot to be nervous. I ate my fries and his too, and he never looked away from my face. Later I couldn’t remember what we talked about. I only remembered feeling like I’d been holding my breath for months and it was finally safe to exhale.

I didn’t feel that way now.

Our toasting forks had long handles capped with wooden knobs at one end and three prongs like tiny pitchforks at the other. There was a platter with strips of beef, bell peppers, onions, jalapeños, and some thick white strips of cheese.

“Halloumi,” Elizabeth explained. “A good cheese for grilling.” We speared the food and set it on the hibachi between us. The air above the grill wobbled in the heat.