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"It's exactly how the ocean works. There's the regular ocean, and then there's the ocean that charges you three hundred dollars for the experience."

"You're ridiculous."

"And you're predictably critical. We balance each other out. It's very yin and yang. Very cosmic harmony."

"There's nothing harmonious about this."

"You're right. It's more like cosmic warfare. Same-same but different."

Mia leaned over, interrupting our exchange. "Harper, stop antagonizing Cam."

"I'm not antagonizing. I'm verbally sparring. There's a difference."

"The difference is semantics."

"Semantics are important. They're what separate humans from animals. Well, that and opposable thumbs. And the ability to appreciate good wine." Harper lifted her glass in a mock toast. "To semantics and opposable thumbs."

I watched her drink, watched the wine stain her lips darker, watched her tongue dart out to catch a drop, and had to look away before my thoughts spiraled somewhere inappropriate.

The main course arrived. Tender filet mignon, accompanied by vegetables that had been elevated to haute cuisine through molecular gastronomy or sorcery. I cut into the meat, focused on the mechanical action of eating, tried not to notice Harper's elbow brushing mine as she cut her meat.

Failed spectacularly.

"So," Harper said, turning to face me with wine-bright eyes and dangerous curiosity. "Scale of one to ten, how much are you hating this event?"

"Fifteen."

"That's not how scales work."

"I'm expanding the parameters to accommodate my suffering."

"That's very dramatic for someone who insists they're not dramatic."

"I'm not dramatic. I'm honest."

"Honest and dramatic. You're multifaceted. That's growth, I suppose." She took another sip of wine, studying me over the rim. "What about the company? Scale of one to ten, how much are you hating sitting next to me?"

The question felt like a trap. Like an honest answer would reveal too much, and a dishonest answer would be transparent.

"Six," I said carefully.

"Only six? I'm insulted. I was aiming for at least an eight."

"You want me to hate sitting next to you?"

"I want to know I'm having an impact. Six is mediocre. Six is forgettable. I'm never forgettable."

She wasn't wrong. Harper was many ways of being, but forgettable wasn't one of them.

"Seven," I amended.

"Better. I can work with seven."

Dessert arrived in a cascade of chocolate and gold leaf, a torte with raspberry coulis, artfully plated with the kind of care that suggested the pastry chef took their work very seriously. Harper took a bite and made that sound again, pleasure and appreciation combined to make my stomach tighten with want.

"Okay, this is obscene," she declared. "This is what chocolate tastes like when it goes to therapy and works through all its issues. This is actualized chocolate."

I turned to stare at her. ”You're assigning psychological states to food."