“Michael orders the halibut every time.”
The door closed behind her. Anna stood at the counter for a second, then went back to the table.
Michael had not moved. His plate was in front of him. His fork was in his hand.
“She’s bringing Bernie soup,” Anna said.
“I gathered.”
“From a restaurant.”
“Margo doesn’t go to restaurants.”
“She went to one tonight.”
Anna sat down and picked up her fork. She looked at Michael.
“For the record,” she said, stabbing a piece of fish, “I’m choosing not to make a thing of this.”
“Noted.”
“I’m not going to say anything.”
“Good.”
“Even though she came to a place she hasn’t been to since 2019 to buy soup for a man she plays flamingo cards with three times a week.”
“Anna, you’re making a thing.”
“I’m done.”
Anna took another bite. The room was quiet around them—forks, low conversation, the kitchen working behind the wall.
“Hey, Michael?”
“Yes?”
“I think Bea’s going to be okay.”
He looked at her. “I know she is.”
“Even if Sam disappoints her.”
“Especially then. Because Bea will have everyone else.”
“And if Sam does show up? Really shows up?”
“Then Bea will know what that looks like next to all the times she didn’t. She’s had seventeen years of people who show up. One week of Sam doesn’t undo that.”
Anna set her fork down. She reached across the table and put her hand on his—briefly, a check-in, a touch that said something she wasn’t going to say out loud.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said.
“You haven’t finished.”
“Thank you preemptively.”
“You’re welcome preemptively.”
