“I have a younger brother.”

“And where is your family from?”

Ivy paused. “China.”

“But you grew up in West Maplebury, no?” Gideon said smoothly.

“South of Andover?” said Tom.

“It’s an hour west,” said Ivy. “West Maplebury.”

Marybeth snorted.

The waiter returned with their drinks. They fell silent, studying the menu. Ivy was grateful for the reset; had the conversation gone on any longer, her facade of being a good sport would have become visibly forced.

The second Tom finished ordering his entrée, Gideon asked about his and Marybeth’s recent vacation to Saint Bart’s. Tom appeared to be slightly diminished, slouching back in his seat with an air of distracted nervousness. At Gideon’s question, he sat up slowly and crossed his arms.

“Actually, something happened on the trip.”

“Uh-oh,” said Gideon.

“Well, the thing is—” Tom cleared his throat. “We asked you to brunch to tell you—Marybeth and I are engaged.”

Marybeth held up her hand that had been hidden in her lap for the drama of this moment: a fat, cushion-cut emerald sat on her ring finger in a heavy gold claw setting.

“Oh my God,” Ivy gasped.

“W-wo-wo-wow!” said Gideon. “Congratulations, you two!” His grin stretched ear to ear, the little crooked tooth flashing jauntily.

Color flooded the back of Tom’s neck. With the bombastic swagger Ivy remembered from Grove, he began regaling them with the story of the proposal. It’d happened on their helicopter tour. The pilot flew over the message Tom had written on the beach: Marry Me?

“I thought it was meant for someone else,” said Marybeth. “I pointed at it and said, ‘Look, Tom, someone’s proposing.’ The next thing I know, he’d unclipped his seat belt and was on one knee. The pilot was shouting, Get back in your seat! I’ve never been so shocked in my life.”

Tom raised one brow. “Why? You’ve been telling me to propose for years.”

“I think you’re confusing me with your mother,” Marybeth shot back.

“Face it, Tom, that’s game, set, match,” said Gideon, reaching over the little table to clap Tom’s shoulder. His generous teasing rounded the line of Marybeth’s lips into its usual smirk. His own smile trembled at the edges, as if about to take flight. When the waiter came with their food, Gideon said, “Can we pop open a bottle of champagne, these two just got engaged!” They all seemed to take a collective breath. Ivy felt the limpness of having exerted some vast group effort, the purpose of which eluded her.

The arrival of the champagne signaled permission to transition into their exuberant, sloppy selves, preceding the actual effects of alcohol. Marybeth told a story about Tom’s sleep apnea—he snored so hard he woke himself up; she imitated the snort, a loud, piggish sound—and it was a marker of their heady mood that they all fell to pieces at this. Ivy asked to see the ring again. “Appalling, isn’t it?” said Marybeth, not bothering to keep her voice down. “But it’s been in Tom’s family since the ice age, so what can I do?”

By the second hour, they began to express their fondness for one another in sentimental, boisterous bursts. Tom pointed at Gideon, his Boston accent coming out: “I’ve known this guy since preschool. And now I’m going to be married. I always thought you’d be first.”

“I told you I wouldn’t be,” said Gideon, shaking his head.

“You two are adorable,” said Marybeth.

“Bring us another bottle,” Tom called out.

The waiter came over and began to recite the selections. “The same one as before,” interrupted Tom.

“The Dom Pérignon or the d’Ambonnay, sir?”

“Which one, he asks us,” grumbled Tom. “You’re the expert, aren’t you?”

The waiter disappeared in high color. “What are you laughing about?” Marybeth asked. Ivy said the waiter was going to spit in their food. Marybeth said, “He wouldn’t be such a brute,” but when desserts came out, Ivy noticed she didn’t touch her crème br?lée.

Eschewing the spoon, Tom picked up a lady finger off his tiramisu with his index finger and thumb, licking a trail of cream off his thumb afterward. It was a disgusting gesture, but everything Tom did seemed a deliberate slap to good form, as if he were too well bred for manners. “I want a yacht as my wedding present,” he declared to Gideon, crumbs flying.

“Done,” said Gideon.

“I’m going to name her Nuaa Junior.”

“Name her The Marybeth,” said Gideon.

“I want that!” said Marybeth.

“Time for your toast, Giddy,” said Tom. Then, softer: “Practice for your best-man speech.”

“Let’s toast to… happily ever after,” said Gideon, raising his glass.

“We have to get going, Tom,” said Marybeth after she downed her drink. “We have the baby shower.”

“We have to go to the baby shower,” repeated Tom.

Gideon asked for the check. He tried to pay for the entire meal but Tom waved him off.

“The yacht,” he reminded Gideon. “You gotta save up.”

Ivy peeked at the receipt on the tray. Her heart nearly burst from shock. Their cocktails, four bottles of champagne, gelatinous poached eggs sprinkled with truffles and caviar, various cakes and sweets had totaled up to just over two thousand dollars.

“It was wonderful to meet you,” Marybeth said to Ivy as their cab pulled up to the curb. “Gideon must bring you around more often. Actually”—she whirled around—“I just remembered—we’re going skiing on the seventeenth in Mont-Tremblant. Come join!” Ivy laughed, lurching sideways, but Marybeth said, “I’m serious. Come.”

“We’ll see,” said Ivy, flicking her head coyly in Gideon’s direction.

Marybeth raised her voice and repeated the suggestion to Gideon, who was patting Tom on the back with final words of congratulations. “What was that?” he said.

“I said—you better bring this one on our ski trip. It’s no fun going solo. Canada is so cold without someone to share a bed with.”

Gideon placed his arm around Ivy’s shoulder and drew her so close she could smell his woody aftershave. “I don’t want to freeze,” he agreed.

“Bye, lovebirds,” Marybeth sang. “See you two on the slopes!” She waved frantically from the window until the taxi turned the corner.

* * *

PERHAPS GIDEON ALSO felt diving into a sudden overnight trip would be too risky because he called her a few days later and invited her to a Celtics game. Another trial run before the main performance. Ivy assumed Tom and Marybeth or more of the “old crowd” would be present, but when she saw Gideon waiting outside the Garden, he was alone. How stiff and ungainly her arms and legs felt, swinging this way and that, without elegance, while Gideon stood so tall and formal, the heavy drape of his wool coat, the edges of his plaid scarf, his pressed trousers forming a graceful line from head to toe.

Gideon was a season ticket holder with balcony seats. He quickly gathered that Ivy didn’t follow basketball and to make the game livelier for her, he pointed out Boston’s Big Three and framed their journeys as an exciting comeback story: they’d each been transcendent talents on lottery-bound teams until they joined together to defeat the rival Lakers and win a championship in their first year together, ending a decades-long title drought. “It’s the start of a dynasty,” he explained. “That’s why all the games have been sold out, even in the regular season. Our team’s going to win again this year.” Ivy nodded and asked questions. She loved listening to Gideon’s voice. Its natural ownership quality was still there. Even the Celtics belonged to him.

At halftime, she bought them two hot dogs and chocolate bars. “You said you hadn’t eaten dinner yet,” she said, noting that the face underneath the green cap seemed pale.

Gideon thanked her. “You’re so considerate,” he said.

“Just don’t take advantage,” she said.

He smiled uncertainly—a furrowed, stricken smile—and she hurried to laugh, to say it was a joke, he could take advantage of her as much as he wanted, which then led him to laugh and look away.

The Celtics crushed the Nets 118–86. In the post-win euphoria, Ivy had hoped they might hug or Gideon might wrap his arm around her shoulders the way he’d done the other day in front of Tom and Marybeth. Instead, as they gathered their coats and scarves and followed the crowd down the stairs, he turned to her suddenly and asked: “Do you remember the first time we met?”

“You mean, at Grove?”

“Yes.”

“Uh… I remember we had American Lit together.” It surprised her to realize that she didn’t actually remember the exact first time she saw Gideon, despite her terrible infatuation. He’d not existed for her one day, and the next, he was her whole world.