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“Dave was a three-hours-early man?”

“Dave considered being at the gate ninety minutes before boarding an act of reckless spontaneity.”

“No wonder I liked him.”

“So did I.”

The past tense doesn’t hurt the way it once did. I loved him. He died. Both things can be true without one canceling the other.

Blair turns her glass between her fingers. “Then maybe the question isn’t whether you want another relationship. Maybe it’s whether you want to go through the process required to locate one.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” I say.

“Human dating is inefficient.”

“I reached the same conclusion.” The thought that occurred to me at the Blue Plate comes back, and this time I have considerably more evidence in its favor.

“There is technically another option.”

Blair pauses. “Oh, no.”

“That’s not a reasonable response to something I haven’t said yet.”

“You didn’t have to say it.”

I push the basket of fries a little farther away. “I’m not talking about Locke.”

“I know. You’re talking about whether what happened to Rachel could happen again.”

Hearing her put it that plainly makes the idea sound even more ridiculous than it did when it first occurred to me at the Blue Plate. Back then, it had been one stray thought while I watched Rachel and Locke together. I dismissed it almost immediately and did the sensible thing instead. Thirteen times.

“Before I started dating, I considered it for about five seconds.”

“When?”

“At the Blue Plate. I was watching Rachel and Locke and wondering what it might be like to have someone in my life again. Then I decided to behave like a functioning adult and try dating.”

“Which went well.”

“Spectacularly.”

She laughs, but saying the idea aloud has made it harder to tuck back into the category of ridiculous things I don’t intend to do. I gave the normal option a very respectable thirteen chances.

Blair studies me. “So now you’re reconsidering?”

“I’m saying I’ve got additional evidence that human dating is terrible. That’s not the same thing as having a Plan B.”

Her eyebrows lift. “You have a Plan B?”

“Absolutely not. Because I’m forty-eight years old and I’m not making myself a boyfriend out of lawn furniture.”

Blair laughs hard enough that she has to set down her drink. I fold my arms. “I’m glad my life is entertaining.”

“I’m sorry.” Her grin says otherwise. “Lawn furniture?”

“It’s wicker.”

“Which has a surprisingly successful track record.”