Indie. Riiight. That was what people said when their work was either groundbreaking or filmed in their cousin’s basement with a phone and a ring light. Allegra bit the inside of her cheek to keep her smile in check. “Got it.”
He scratched his cheek. “Anyway,wasan actor. Looking for a career change.”
“You don’t like it?”
He laughed, but it came out tight. “Think I lost my enthusiasm for it.”
His eyes flickered, just for a second. A story he wasn’t ready to tell. She recognized the look instantly. She’d lived there, letting the world tell itself stories about her while she smiled along. So she let him have it.
“Yeah,” she said. “I get that.”
He shifted on his feet. “So, uh, I’ve never had fondue. And you speak flawless English, German, probably French. What, like a dozen others? Want to order for us?”
“Not a dozen. Just five. I can also tell you my name in Japanese, but I don’t think that qualifies as fluency.”
Nate rolled his eyes. “Only five? Wow. Disappointing.”
“I’ll try not to let the weight of your expectations crush me,” she said dryly. Then, with a brisk nod, “And sure, I’ve got this.”
She stood, adjusted the brim of her hat, and did a quick, instinctive sweep of the space—faces, reflections, anyone looking twice—before striding toward the counter.
Fifteen minutes later, they were tucked inside the lakeside hall, seated across from each other at a scarred wooden table. One whole wall yawned open to the lake, letting in a breeze that smelled like water and sunscreen. Outside, kids hurled themselves off the diving board in shrieking arcs, while sunbathers—some topless, some valiantly pretending not to notice the toplessness—stretched along the concrete edge like languid, sun-drunk cats.
Between them, a red enamel pot of molten cheese burbled cheerfully, sending up puffs of fragrant steam. Allegra gestured at it. “Okay. First rule: no double-dipping. Ever.”
“Got it. No double-dipping,” Nate said, saluting with his bread skewer.
“So tear the bread into chunks,” she continued. “Coat it, dip it in pepper if that’s your thing, then eat. With the short fork. Only the short one.”
He stabbed his piece of bread. “There’s a method to this dipping bit?”
“Instinct,” she said, plunging her own bread into the bubbling pot. “Observe carefully, then fake confidence.” She swirled, blew, scraped it through the pepper, skewered it on the short fork, and took a bite.
“Got it,” Nate said, dunking a hunk of bread. “So tell me something about you. Like, what do you do?”
“I, uh…” she began, then faltered. “I’m a student. Art history.”
Technically true. She was enrolled. Still had a student ID somewhere in her wallet, though she suspected it was moresymbolic than functional at this point. She’d missed so many papers her professors had started sending emails with subject lines likeAre you okay?But somehow, they kept passing her. Probably because no one wanted to risk failing that Allegra.
“Right,” Nate said. “Art history.”
She could hear the skepticism in his tone, or perhaps she imagined it. Either way, she jumped in before he could ask anything too specific. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking. What does a person even do with that?”
His smile turned playful. “Well?”
“No clue. Teach, I guess? Or label pottery shards until I go cross-eyed.”
He chuckled, blowing on a gooey morsel. “Sounds thrilling.”
“But—” The words escaped before she could stop them. “I’ve always kind of wanted to be a museum curator.”
There it was. That little dream she’d stashed away between “vanish to New Zealand” and “drive alone for once in my damn life.”
“So why not go for it?” Nate asked.
Allegra wrinkled her nose. No one had ever thrown that out as if it were an actual option. “Oh, you know,” she said, forcing a shrug. “My parents are old-fashioned. Don’t think there’s a career in it. They want me to join the family business.”
Nate fed himself another bite and raised an eyebrow at her. “You know, you’re allowed to live your own life, right?” he said still chewing.
