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“We’re stuck together at this inn for the next”—I glance at the clock on the wall—“sixteen hours minimum. I’ll get it out of you eventually, so it would be great to save us both the anguish and just tell me now.”

He sighs. “I need a suit because my mom is going to ask Sara to marry her.”

I can’t hide my smile, whereas he looks absolutely tortured.

“She made me promise not to tell anyone. Please don’t ruin the surprise. I know I’m the last person you’d want to help, but please, Norah.”

“As long as you don’t tell Kristine that my mom has the same plan,” I counter, and I swear his knees nearly buckle with relief.

“I thought I was fucked,” he says with a carefree smile.

“I mean, you are, but not about that,” I reply as sincerely as I can. “You still don’t have a steamer.”

He rolls his eyes at me, but then something else flashes across his face. “Look, I know you and I…”

“Can’t stand each other?” I fill in.

“Sure. That. But maybe we can play nice for the holidays. For our moms.”

I don’t hate this idea. “A temporary truce wouldn’t be a bad idea considering this…new development.”

“I just want to make this trip as perfect for them as possible.”

I nod. “The most romantic double proposal. We can call it”—I pause, racking my brain—“Operation Latke.”

“Why the hell would we call it that?”

“Because latkes are the only thing we can agree on without drawing suspicion.”

He looks at me intently, his blue eyes searching my face like I’m a mystery he can’t crack.

“Are you starving?” he asks. “All of a sudden, I’m starving.”

“Alice did say we can use the kitchen.”

Henry nods, almost as if he’s telling himself yes, and then I follow him out of our room and down the stairs.

Even though Alice told us the B&B was fully booked, we don’t see or hear any other humans. It’s almost like this whole place magically appeared just for us.

We enter the kitchen, which looks like it got stuck in the 1970s, in contrast with the more Victorian design of the rest of the B&B. Aging yellow appliances. Nearly orange wood—out of style in any era. Henry starts to survey the fridge, and I find my way into the pantry. I spot a giant container of pretzel rods and stand on my very tiptoes to try to grab it. My fingers just miss a solid grip, and the canister comes crashing down. I yelp as I try to grab for it.

“Everything okay in there?” Henry asks.

“Just grabbing some pretzels,” I say, collecting myself.

I twist off the lid and begin to chomp on a pretzel rod. Henry opens a cabinet, pulling down a ceramic mug. He pours something in, back still turned to me, obstructing my view, then places the mug in front of me on the kitchen island. I finish chewing slowly and sniff the contents, suspicious.

The sugary bite of apple juice hits, and I’m immediately six years old again.

“I remember how you liked to dip your pretzels,” he says quietly, turning back to the fridge so I can’t see his face.

“When I was a kid,” I reply, not sure where either of us is going with this.

“Weirdo,” he says, back still to me, but I can almost see the smirk on his face.

I take another pretzel rod out and swirl it around in the juice-filled mug. I can’t believe he remembered that when I barely even did. Not until the sense memory hit me like a ton of bricks.

Sitting up in the tree house my dad built one summer, and one summer only. “Never again,” he said with determination, even though Hannah and I knew we could probably wear him down fairly easily. Spending hours up there with Henry, sprawled out on our stomachs, knees bent, feet crossed in the air. I had gotten a Shel Silverstein book of poems. Maybe Where the Sidewalk Ends? I read every single one aloud to Henry, our only sustenance being pretzels and apple juice. I tried desperately to convince him that this was a winning combo, but he just crinkled up his nose at me, refusing to take my word for it. Refusing to even taste it and see for himself. In Henry’s mind, pretzels were for eating and juice was for drinking, separately, always. Stubborn boy.