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Tomas raises his glass. I raise mine. We drink.

Eline asks Patrick an aviation question during the main course, and his face opens completely. For twenty minutes he explains it with the enthusiasm of someone who has never found flying boring and cannot imagine why anyone would.

I watch him.

Tomas leans over. "You're staring."

"I know."

"Good," he says. And goes back to his wine.

After the main course Tomas and I step outside while Patrick and Eline are deep in something — the conversation has migrated to graphic design, Patrick's YouTube channel aesthetics, Eline has opinions — and we stand on the canal street in the autumn evening and Tomas says nothing for a moment.

Then: "I want to say something and I want you to hear it."

"Alright."

"I have known you for sixteen years," he says. "I have watched you be good at your work and good at your friendships and good at being Jan, which is a demanding job." He pauses. "I have watched you be alone for a very long time and tell yourself it was fine."

I look at the canal.

"It wasn't fine," Tomas says. "I knew. I never said anything because you didn't want me to. But I want to say it now." He looks at me. "You're not alone anymore. And you look like a person who has remembered what it is to be known by someone." A pause. "I'm glad. That's all."

I look at the canal for a moment.

"I planned three days for him," I say. "This week."

Tomas starts smiling — the genuine one. "Jan Novak planned three days."

"A spa. Breakfast in bed. A bike route."

"Jan."

"Prime delivery on the breakfast trays," I say.

"Of course," he says. He puts his hand on my shoulder. Squeezes once.

We go back inside.

After dinner, we walk home along the canal.

Patrick has his arm around my shoulders and I have mine around his waist and Tomas and Eline are ahead of us, Tomas's hand in hers, the four of us moving through the Amsterdam autumn night in the easy way of people who have had a good evening and are not quite ready to let it end.

At the corner Tomas shakes Patrick's hand. He holds it a moment longer than necessary and looks at him, the Tomas look, the one that means: I see you, I approve, take care of him.

Patrick receives it, the look of someone who understands without being told.

"Next month," Tomas says. "All four of us."

"Next month," I say.

Eline kisses both our cheeks. They walk one way. We walk the other.

"I like them," Patrick says.

"I know you would."

"Tomas said something to me," he says. "When we shook hands at the end. While you were saying goodbye to Eline." He pauses. "He leaned in and said: he won't say it but Jan has been waiting for you for a long time. Don't waste it."