“Slower,” Sam said. “You’re not Neil Young.”

I laughed and stopped for a minute. “I don’t even know what I’m doing!”

“You’re doing great! Don’t stop.”

So I played along.

“All right, wait for a minute; there’s no harmonica in this part.”

I put my fake harmonica down as he kept playing. I could tell he was going through the full song, each note. I watched how effortless it was for him, how his fingers seemed to move with the expectation they’d make a beautiful sound. And yet they were making no sound at all.

“Now!” he said. “Get that harmonica going. This is your moment.”

“It is? I didn’t know!” I said, desperately pulling my hands up to my face and really committing to it.

And then Sam slowed and I could tell the song was ending. I took my hands down and I watched him as he hit the last few notes. And then he was done. And he looked at me.

“Next request?” he asked.

“Have dinner with me?” I asked him.

It just popped out of my mouth. I wanted to talk more, to spend more time with him, to hear more about him. I wanted more. “We can eat here or anywhere nearby if you’re in the mood for something in particular.”

“Emma . . .” he said seriously.

“Yeah?”

“Can we get burritos?”

Dos Tacos was brightly lit with orange and yellow undertones instead of the flattering blue light of the bar. But he still looked handsome. And I still felt beautiful.

Even when I bit into my gigantic carne asada deluxe burrito.

“If I could only eat Mexican food for the rest of my life, that would be fine with me,” Sam said. “Completely fine.”

I wanted to tell him that food in Mexico tasted nothing like this. I wanted to tell him about the three weeks Jesse and I spent in Mexico City, where we found this tiny little restaurant that served amazing chiles rellenos.

But I didn’t want to talk about the past.

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” I said. “Not one bit.” I reached over and took a chip out of the basket in front of us at the same time that Sam did.

We collided, ever so briefly, and I liked the feel of his hand on mine. This is what it’s like to be on a date, I thought. This is what it’s like to be normal.

“But if we’re talking about desserts,” Sam said, “I don’t know if I’d choose Mexican for the rest of my life. French maybe, éclairs and custards. Italian could be interesting, tiramisu and gelato.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Indian desserts are pretty incredible. They are all really creamy and nutty. Like rice puddings and pistachio ice cream type stuff. I might have to go with that.”

“Wow, that sounds great.”

I nodded. “But maybe nothing beats tres leches. Which is Mexican, I suppose. Although, almost every Latin American country you go to claims it’s theirs. It’s like baklava. I swear, I’ve spoken to at least twenty people who all claimed they know for a fact their people invented baklava.”

“That’s funny, because my family invented tres leches right here in the United States.”

I laughed. “And I personally invented baklava.”

Sam laughed and I looked around to see that everyone appeared to have cleared out and the staff behind the counter had started cleaning up.

“Oh no,” I said. “I think they’re closing.” I pulled my phone out of my purse to check the time. It was 10:02.

“Are you saying the night is over?” Sam asked as he finished the chips sitting in between us. The way he said it, the way he smiled at me and held my gaze, told me that he didn’t think the night was over, that he knew I didn’t, either.

“I’d say we should go to a bar and get a drink,” I said. “But we already did that.”

Sam nodded. “We sort of did things in reverse, didn’t we? Maybe we should go get lunch now.”

“Or meet for coffee.” I gathered all the trash onto my tray. “Either way, we should get out of here. I don’t want to be like that guy who would always come read books ten minutes before closing. Remember that guy?”

“Remember him?” Sam said, standing up. “I still resent him.”

I laughed. “Exactly.”

Sam and I threw everything away, thanked the man behind the counter, and walked out onto the sidewalk. It was one of those Boston nights that almost make the winters worth it. The air was warm but fresh. The moon was full. The tall, age-old buildings that often looked dirty in the day glowed at night.

“I have a crazy idea,” Sam said.

“Tell me.”

“What if we went for a walk?”

My first thought was that it sounded wonderful and my second was that I wouldn’t last more than ten minutes in my heels.

“Too quaint?” he asked. “Like it’s the nineteen fifties and I’m asking you to split a milk shake?”

I laughed. “No!” I said. “I love the idea. I just know that my feet will start to hurt.”

Up ahead, I saw one of the ubiquitous crimson red signs that litter the city—CVS.

Seven minutes later, I had my high heels in my purse and a pair of five-dollar flip-flops on my feet. Sam had a king-sized Snickers.

“Where to?” I asked him, ready to take on the city.

“I didn’t really have a plan,” Sam said. “But, uh . . .” He looked up and down the street. “This way?” He pointed away from the cluster of buildings.

“Great,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

And off we went. Slowly at first, just putting one foot in front of the other, talking as we did.

The city was humming. Groups of girls out together, college kids walking around, tipsy drinkers smoking cigarettes out on the sidewalk, men and women holding hands on their way out or way home.

Sam told me about teaching eighth-grade orchestra and jazz band, about how he had recently started picking up extra money as a studio musician a few times a month.

I told him how the store was doing, how my parents were doing. I updated him on Marie, told him about Sophie and Ava, even showed him a few signs I’d learned recently. I told him about a few days before when I recognized Ava signing, “Milk, please.”

Sam listened as if I was the most fascinating woman in the universe and I realized how long it had been since someone listened to me like that.

We both made fun of ourselves for living in the city and working in the same suburban area where we grew up, a reversal of the common commute.

We stepped over gum and we made way for other pedestrians and we bent down to pet dogs. We walked past Harvard dorms and Harvard Yard. Twice we walked past a T stop and I wondered if we both wouldn’t gravitate toward it, using it as a way to say good-bye. But my feet didn’t head in that direction and neither did Sam’s. We just kept walking, slowly and peacefully, deeper into the night.

We eventually found ourselves walking along the Charles. My feet started to hurt and I asked Sam if we could sit on one of the benches along the river.

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask. I think I started forming a blister around Porter Square.”

We sat down on a bench and I picked up my phone to check the time. It was one in the morning. I wasn’t tired. And I didn’t feel like going home.

There was so much we had already talked about. We had talked about work and music and families and books. We had talked about anything and everything—other than Jesse.

But once we sat down on that bench, it somehow became impossible to ignore.

“So I suppose you know I’m a widow,” I said.

Sam looked at me and nodded. “I had heard,” he said. “But I wasn’t sure if I should bring it up.” He reached over and grabbed my hand, gently and with tenderness. “Emma, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I hope this feels okay to you,” he said. “Us being out here. Together.”

I nodded. “Surreal, maybe,” I said. “But, yeah, it feels okay.”

“I can’t even imagine how hard it has been for you,” he said. “How long has it been?”