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She took another sip of her drink, then brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles.

“I’m glad, too, JJ.”

The corners of his mouth lifted as though she’d just given him the Christmas present of his dreams.

Raucous laughter rose along the table, and both of them turned their attention to Jonathan’s friends.

“I cannot believe you’re a dad now,” one of the guys said to Tom.

“Is that a dig, man?” Tom joked.

“No, no, it’s just”—the other friend turned to the group—“you guys remember what Tom was like in elementary school?”

“Yes!” One of the girls jabbed a finger in their direction. “He was—oh my God, poor Mrs. Donovan. The things you put that poor teacher through.”

“I was an angel!”

“You were demented.”

“Remember when he ran straight into that tree on the playground and split his head open?”

“The bloodstains are still there.”

“What were you like in elementary school?” Phoebe asked Jonathan quietly, but Becca heard.

“Oh, now, Jonathan!” she said to the group at large. “How would y’all describe Jonathan back then?”

“Perfect.”

“Teacher’s pet.”

“Crossing guard.”

“Nerdy little goofball.”

“Now, now, I remember him being a little naughty.” Next to Phoebe, Becca sipped her beer thoughtfully. “Not really naughty but, like, a partner in crime. He always had something funny to say in class. He was always down to play MASH and pass notes.”

Phoebe caught Jonathan’s eye. His brown eyes twinkled with amusement.

“So, not much changed by the time you were in college, then,” she said softly.

“I like to think I’d matured a little by then.”

“You change, but your essence stays the same.”

Phoebe’s brain stuck on the idea of Jonathan’s essence—his curious, joyful, loving essence—and she needed to stop thinking about him like that. About all the parts of him that she had loved so fiercely back then, the parts that she had never managed to find in anyone else. So, without thinking, she grabbed his forearm and turned it over.

“Tell me about these tattoos.”

“This was the first one I got.” He pointed to a shape with sharp angles on the soft skin of his forearm.

It was strange to imagine Jonathan doing something like going out and getting a tattoo without Phoebe knowing all the details. Where had he gone? How had he decided on the place? Had he read the Yelp reviews first? Who had gone with him?

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-three.”

Phoebe paused, still holding his arm in her hand. Only a year after they had graduated.