“How are our salads?” the waitress asked.

“Fine. Great,” Josh said, though he hadn’t had time to pick up his fork.

“Excellent.” She beamed and left.

What had they been talking about? “Have you seen anything good lately?” Josh asked.

“Actually, I’ve been watching this documentary. Josh, you’d love it. It’s about this plastic surgeon in India who does really extreme cases. Like, there was a little girl who had two noses, I shit you not.”

“Wow,” Josh said. It was right up his alley.

“And there was this other guy who had warts all over his body that made him look like his hands were the roots of trees.”

“Tree Man! I saw that one,” he said.

“Wasn’t that incredible?”

“Here we go!” announced the chirpy server, and Sarah was right. She had a bright, birdlike quality about her, like a chickadee, interested and energetic and . . . fluttery, somehow. “Let me know if everything is to your satisfaction.”

“Stay right there,” Sarah ordered, cutting her filet in half. She inspected the middle, which was pink, then pressed her finger against it. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

“Enjoy!” She flitted off again. Yes. A chickadee. He always liked those birds, their bright black eyes and intelligence.

“How’s your mom?” Sarah asked, and that was easy to talk about, because his mom had just been to Sedona with Sumi and had funny stories of the lady who did yoga buck naked. Well, it was funny when Steph told it. Not so much now, he guessed. He wasn’t great at delivery. Or Sarah wasn’t amused.

They talked about their families, Jen’s new baby. “Where did she come up with the name Leah? Is that a family name? I always think of Princess Leia.”

“Well, what a great role model, right?” Josh said. “I don’t know how she picked it.” He took a bite of salmon, wishing he’d ordered something else, then remembered a random fact. “If you’re Jewish, sometimes you give a baby a name that starts with the same letter as a person in your family who died.” While Octavia’s middle name was Lauren (and how Lauren had loved that), Josh now wondered if Jen had thought of that tradition when picking out her second daughter’s name.

“They’re not Jewish, though, right? Darius isn’t, is he?”

“They go to Blessed Sacrament. I don’t know if Darius was raised—”

“Miss?” called Sarah. “The asparagus? Thanks!” She lowered her voice. “I’m sorry. I wanted to catch her before we got too far into the meal. You were saying?”

“I think . . . it doesn’t matter.”

She was Lauren’s friend. She was hardworking and loyal. She was funny (sometimes). She was very particular about food and treated the waitstaff poorly. She smelled nice. She was attractive and healthy.

But he wasn’t feeling it. Give it a chance, he told himself. Lauren wouldn’t have suggested this if it was too far off.

The asparagus came. “How are we liking everything?” the server asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Sarah said. “We haven’t had a chance to eat the asparagus.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’ll . . . let me know if you need anything.”

Sarah ate some, and offered some to Josh. He took a few spears. She asked if he’d bought any more furniture. He told her yes and detailed his new appliances.

But aside from medical shows about rare health conditions, the conversation didn’t exactly flow.

The server wrapped up Sarah’s leftovers, and they ordered coffee and a crème brûlée to share.

“Oof. This was a great meal,” Sarah said a little while later. “I’m gonna have to run it off tomorrow. You want to go together?”

“No, I have something to do,” he lied. “I’m, um, fixing something at Donna’s.” Now he would have to go to Donna’s and find something to fix, because he hated lying.

“You know, that reminds me of something. When Lauren and I were little—”

“And how is the dessert?” asked the waitress with a big smile, sliding the check on the table. “Did we like the crème brûlée?”

“Jesus!” Sarah barked. “Can you leave us alone for, like, ten consecutive minutes? This is his first date since his wife died! Stop interrupting!”

Everyone went quiet, and the waitress looked stricken. Literally, as if Sarah had just punched her. “Oh, my God,” she said. “I’m so sorry! Obviously, I didn’t . . .” Her face crumpled, and she started to cry. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She held her hand up to cover her mouth. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry. Or interrupt. We’re supposed to check on you a lot. It’s policy.” Her voice shook. “I’m sorry for crying. It’s just . . . I’m very emotional lately. My dog died two days ago.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Sarah said, tossing down her spoon. “Are you comparing his wife dying to your dog?”

“No, no, I’m not, I just—”

“Duffy?” Josh asked.

The server looked up as if surprised he remembered, then nodded.

“I’m really sorry,” he said.

“No, it’s not . . . God, listen to me. Your wife died, and I’m telling you about a seventeen-year-old dog. I’m an idiot. Have a good night. I’m really sorry.” The last few words just squeaked out of her.

She left, and Josh looked at Sarah.

“That was memorable,” she said. Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry if I made a scene. I’m just . . . I don’t know. Nervous.”