“It’s not a hard and fast rule—no commitment, no dating, no feeding past midnight. I haven’t sworn it off because love is a capitalist construct or some bullshit like that.” He shrugs. “But when I was younger, I was in a couple of relationships where the interest didn’t match up, and . . . It’s better to be up-front. So no one gets hurt.”

“I see.” I picture a boy being told by his mother that he’s not her son anymore. Then growing up to hate the idea of telling a woman that she’s not his girlfriend anymore. It makes sense, this determination of his. It also makes my heart heavy.

“What about you?” he asks.

“Me?”

“Do you date?”

I smile. “For a living.”

“Right. How did that start?”

“Oh.” I go back to tracing patterns on the glass. “In college. It’s kind of a depressing story. Does not pair well with cheese.” I let out a nervous laugh, hoping he’ll laugh, too.

Instead he asks, “Why depressing?”

Honesty. Honesty. It’s a thing that I can probably manage. “Because . . . I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know you were dating someone?”

“No.” I swallow. “I didn’t know it was fake.”

His attention shifts. Still on me, still focused, but more cautious. Gentle. Land mine territory. “You didn’t.”

I’ve never spoken aloud about what happened, not even with Cece, because . . . I’m still not sure how it could have happened to me. It’s been years, and it still doesn’t feel like my story. I’ve always been so guarded. So careful-footed. And when I stumbled, I didn’t just skin a knee. I fell facedown and knocked out all my teeth.

“When I was a sophomore, this guy I knew moved abroad. The place he rented was cheap, so I took over his rent. That’s how I met J.J. He was the roommate.” I push the glass away. “I’d seen him around the Physics Department, and I thought he was an okay guy. Though he was planning on becoming an experimentalist.”

“Should have tipped you off.”

I laugh. “We spent almost one entire year politely ignoring each other. Ideal roommate situation. Then he broke up with his girlfriend.” I sigh. “It was messy. Twenty-year-old messy, you know? There were still feelings, but she’d met someone else, and . . . All I know is that a couple weeks later she came over to pick up her stuff, and she found J.J. and me having dinner together while watching something on TV. She went ballistic. She was so jealous, which was hilarious, since J.J. and I were sitting ten feet apart and I was having chickpeas—officially the least romantic food. But that’s how J.J. got the idea that we should pretend to be together so she’d get even more jealous and . . . I don’t know, race through Boston Logan to confess her undying love? It was a fuzzy plan. But I said yes, because . . .”

“Because you weren’t any better than you are now at saying no?”

“Hey—no personal callouts.” He smiles, and I continue. “We started the ruse, and . . . we didn’t just fake it on campus, when she was around. He told everyone—his friends, my friends. And in my defense, which—maybe I have none, but we didn’t talk much about the fact that it was fake. He brought me home to his parents for the holidays, we studied together, he taught me how to play Go.”

Jack nods slowly. “How quickly did you get better than him?”

“Very to extremely. But I pretended I didn’t, because he hated losing. He hated not feeling like the smartest person in the room, but he was good at hiding it. He was charming in public. But in private the insecurities came out, and . . .”

“Not so charming?”

“Not really. He was self-centered, but . . . you have to understand, I’d never had lots of friends. I was always the wallflower, trying not to get noticed, but all of a sudden I was at the center of someone’s universe. We were together all the time. First just a few weeks, then six months. He started kissing me in private, too. Then more than kissing. Then he wanted to have sex.”

“Did you?”

My mouth is dry. “Yeah. I did it.”

“No—did you want to?”

“I . . . I didn’t not want to.” I trace my finger against the tablecloth. “Mostly, I wanted him to have a version of me he could enjoy.”

Jack’s eyes close, and I’m suddenly afraid of what I’ll find when he opens them. Disgust. Pity, maybe. Judgment. But no: it’s just that deep brown, the slice of color, and a bunch of other things I cannot recognize.

“It was Elsie and J.J. Everyone said how beautiful a couple we were, and I settled into that. I read the Dune books because they were his favorites. I told myself Dream Theater was good. I did his laundry. Cut my hair short because he liked bobs. I felt powerful, like I’d cracked how to be a social human being. I’d learned how to make people want me.” I wet my lips. “Then his ex asked him to get back together.”

Jack’s jaw tenses. His neck tightens. “And he said that you had to go, because your relationship was fake.”

I nod. “I wasn’t even sure if I had the right to be hurt. It was just . . . confusing.”

“Were you in love with him?”

I let out a small laugh and shake my head. “Not at all. And it should have made it better, right? That I didn’t lose the love of my life, that he was just some guy I only liked because I knew how to please him. But then I realized why it hit me so bad.” I have to stop. Take a deep breath. “I’d tried so hard. Given my all to be the perfect Elsie he wanted, and . . .” It almost hurts too much to say it.

“You gave him a perfect version of you, and he still didn’t want you,” Jack says prosaically. Almost detached. Like I’m a gravitational singularity that can be explained, cataloged, predicted. I’m momentarily stunned by how right he is. Then I’m surprised that I’m even surprised.

“And what you took away from it was that you had to try harder.”

I nod. “Pretty much.” The tray of cheese arrives, but my stomach is sealed. “J.J.’s girlfriend wouldn’t allow me to live in the apartment. And because the contract was in J.J.’s name, I had to move out. I didn’t really have anywhere left to go, and . . . I’ll spare you the details, but it was a mess. I missed tests, assignments. Didn’t get enough credits to stay on my scholarship. My junior-year grades were shit—and the first thing on the transcripts I sent in for grad school applications. I’d wanted to become a physicist for a decade, and because of some . . . some guy who sucked at Go, I almost didn’t.” I force myself to reach for a piece of fontina, because—fuck J.J. It’s delicious in my mouth. Rich and smooth, sweet and pungent. It makes me forget that I nearly bawled like a four-year-old in the middle of a fancy fusion restaurant. “But my mentor saved me.”

Jack tenses. “Your mentor.”

I nod, picking another cube. “Laurendeau.” The guy whose career Jack accidentally ruined. I’m trying not to think about it—Jack’s article, or what Dr. L. would say if he knew that I’m here with him. It seems like a good use of my well-honed compartmentalization skills. “He saw through the bad grades and the rec letters that said I was flaky. Told me I had potential. Accepted me into grad school. Everything I’ve accomplished, I owe to him.”

Jack scans my face for a long time. Then he exhales slowly and nods once, as if coming to an arduous decision. “Elsie—”

“My turn to ask a question,” I interrupt. I’m done talking about J.J. and Dr. L. “Since we’re on the topic.”

Jack hesitates, like he’s not ready to let go of the subject. “What is it?”

“Olive also said something else. That when you do go out with women, it’s usually to . . .” I can’t bring myself to utter the words. But it doesn’t matter, because Jack looks like he knows exactly what I want to say. I point back and forth between us. “Is that what you want?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he studies me, stern, unreadable, impenetrable as he hasn’t been in a while. And then, after a long beat of choosing words carefully, he slowly says, “You and I won’t be having sex—”