“It’s been more than a few years,” I say. “Seven, actually.”
We continue walking slowly onto a grassy area, where Scooter sniffs through a lush patch of clover.
“Can you talk about it?” Nate asks.
I can, but I don’t like to. Nevertheless, I don’t want to be rude. “A lot of what I remember about that day is blurred,” I try to explain. “Like a fever dream. As if it wasn’t real.” I pause and glance up at him. “My parents sent me to a therapist after it happened, and he was very focused on getting me to understand the stages of grief. He wanted me to categorize every thought and feeling I had, to try and sort each emotion into one of the stages, like putting pills in a pillbox for each day of the week. Looking back on it, I think he wanted me to understand that my feelings were normal. But he constantly pushed me to move forward through each stage to reach the final state of acceptance.”
“That sounds intense,” Nate replies. “And did you? Reach that final state?”
“Back then?” I chuckle bitterly. “I don’t think so. The whole process was too rigid, like a formula in a textbook. But I was all over the place emotionally, back and forth between denial and anger. I was a mess.”
Scooter leads us toward an empty bench close to the water.
“I’ve never lost anyone important in my life,” Nate tells me. “At least not yet. So I feel a bit ... I don’t know. Lucky. And at the same time wet behind the ears because I have no personal experience with death.”
“Just enjoy the lucky part.” I give him a sidelong glance. “Because that experience will come eventually, whether you like it or not. No one lives forever.” We move around the bench, sit down, and get the dogs settled. “But grief isn’t just limited to death,” I add. “You can experiencegrief from all sorts of things—like the death of a dream. Becoming a chef, for instance. You might not even be aware that you’re grieving about that.”
Nate leans forward and scratches behind Dolly’s ears. “What’s your diagnosis, Dr. Sienna? Am I in a state of denial? Anger, more likely,” he adds.
“I don’t know. I’m not a psychologist. I was just thinking about you and your restaurant. I’m not sure why.”
Dolly moves into the shade beneath the bench, and Nate sits back. “First of all, I love that you’re thinking about me and my restaurant.”
I chuckle.
“So let’s talk about this,” he continues. “Let’s imagine that I let go of that dream, and I make it through law school. Then I finally conquer all the stages of grief and accept that this dream of mine is truly dead. No cooking school in Paris or Italy. No restaurant. No flavor creations with ...” He pauses and looks up at the sky, thoughtfully. “Cilantro and cream. Or foie gras and mint.”
“Yum,” I say.
After a moment, he bends forward and rubs the top of Dolly’s little head. “It’ll be corporate tax law and calculators forever. A life of quiet, passive resignation.” He regards me with humor. “I think I might prefer to hang out in the anger stage. Then at least I could keep blaming my dad for everything bad in my life.”
I nod with understanding as I gaze out over the water. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
Nate lets out a groan. “Enough about my failed ambitions. I was hoping to impress you today. So much for that.”
He crosses one leg over the other, faces me on the bench, and rests his arm along the back of it. I feel a tingling sensation on the side of my neck, as if his hand is creating static electricity there.
“Becky told Kevin that you haven’t dated anyone since you lost your boyfriend,” he says.
I shake my head derisively. “Becky has loose lips when she drinks.”
“Will this get her in trouble?” he asks playfully.
“I suppose not. It’s not as if it’s classified information.” The sun is hot on my shoulders under my white cotton sweater, and I fan myself with my hand. “But what she said isn’t entirely correct. Ihavegone out on a bunch of dates, but none of them went anywhere.”
He leans a little closer, looks me straight in the eye, and speaks softly. “Maybe you haven’t gone out with the right person yet.”
A thrilling energy dances across my skin. I don’t think anyone has ever been so smooth and seductive with me. Not even Jacob. And I don’t hate it.
“You could be right,” I reply.
One side of his mouth curls up in a half smile, and he touches my shoulder with the tip of his forefinger. It’s a gentle sweep, as if he’s brushing a tiny blackfly away, but I feel it all the way down to my toes. The entire left side of my body erupts in goose bumps—the good kind—and I swallow heavily.
“If this were a first date,” he says, “would you consider it worthy of a second?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I check my watch. “We’re only a half hour in, but so far so good.”
He grins, and his cheerfulness reaches his eyes. “I think we have really good odds, because look ...” He gestures toward Scooter and Dolly, who are now sitting beside each other at our feet, watching a tour boat go by. Their heads are moving in perfect unison.
