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Molly didn’t move from her seat. “I did?” she asked, looking up into Bishop’s painfully serious face.

“You did.”

“Why?”

“He’s an aggressively loud chewer.”

“Bishop,” Molly admonished with a huff of frustration.

“He wears athletic socks for every occasion, no matter the accompanying footwear.”

Molly just lobbed an increasingly unamused look up at Bishop.

“Look, Molly, believe it or not, we’ve never really hashed out the finer details of why you broke up with him. You were already broken up before we ever became a thing, which is the only part that really made much difference to me. My basic understanding is that you just . . . weren’t working. And you ended it.” He sighed. “Now. If we’re doing this dinner, we should get going.”

He held out his hand—a practiced, easy movement to offer her assistance out of her seat—when Roy’s voice called to them from across the lot. Bishop let out a breath, head briefly dropping back, angled at the sky.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” Roy said as he approached. “I didn’t mean to spring Simon and Rachel on you. Alannah has informed me that I’m an idiot. She went ahead and met them inside. Did I ruin everything?”

Bishop’s scoff didn’t escape Molly’s notice.

“No, it’s fine.” Molly nearly cringed as the words left her lips, Bishop’s comment from moments before ringing louder than ever. “I’ll be fine. I want to celebrate with you.”

Roy’s grin lit up the dim parking lot. “This way, then,” he said.

From her periphery, Molly saw Bishop flex his fingers. He exhaled.

“Could I offer you my arm?” he asked right as she took her first step to follow Roy.

Molly pivoted to find Aster Bishop still standing beside his car, an arm offered to walk with her. Out of context, he looked ridiculous: dressed in his sharply tailored pants and soft-blue button-up, arm lifted and bent at the elbow. He looked like he was cosplaying as a blond Mr. Darcy, antiquated mannerisms and all.

A cautious, guarded look crystalized on his features. He saw her answer before she thought it.

Molly’s breath had caught in her throat. An unpleasant heat spread through her chest.

Bishop dropped his arm. “I’m sorry,” he said in a clipped tone. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, I’m sorry—just, I’m not—not yet.”

Not yet, not now, maybe later. The new thesis to Molly’s existence. Delaying and avoiding and waiting. One thing at a time.

Alannah, Simon, and Rachel were all sitting at the table by the time Molly arrived with Roy and Bishop. Simon stood when he saw her, an awkward act of chivalry oddly reminiscent of Bishop at the hospital.

“Hi, Molly,” he said in his deep voice, stepping forward to give her a brief hug.

It was everything Molly remembered. And somehow not at the same time. Moreover, it was far too brief to gather the necessary data for a full comparison. She felt a little dizzy, almost wishing she’d taken Bishop up on his offer to return to their apartment now that she was faced with the reality of seeing Simon Clay again.

His appearance should have held all the same comforts as Alannah’s. He had the same wide, deep eyes as she did, but framed in his usual rectangular glasses. He had similar dark lashes, a slightly stronger jaw with a dimpled cleft in his chin, and the kind of sturdy, solid frame that made him great at hugs and rugby. He wasn’t dressed badly, but constant exposure to Bishop had clearly addled Molly’s brain; Simon’s basic chinos and button-up simply underwhelmed. It took substantial willpower not to check for athletic socks.

All of this should have felt like home.

But it didn’t. He didn’t.

Rachel stepped forward next, her pregnant stomach pressing into Molly as they hugged.

“Molly, hi, I’m Rachel. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I mean, meet you . . . again.” Her lovely brown eyes bored into Molly’s skull as if trying to communicate meaning by sheer force of will. “We’ve obviously met before. Just not since, you know, I—I’m . . . I’m going to sit down.” And so she did, looking about as uncomfortable as Molly felt.

“I—that’s nice. I mean, it’s nice to meet you too . . . again.” Molly very seriously considered making a break for the exit.