Melinda took me to a little place around the corner from Joan's house, where she had obviously frequented before. She ordered a bottle of wine and a neat tray of oysters as I browsed the menu and tried to ignore the terrifying prices. This wasn't the sort of black-tie locale that the Delta Epsilon brothers had visited, but it had its own, understated chic luxury in its minimal design. Once again, a place I'd never have thought of visiting by myself. But Melinda seemed absolutely at her ease. I tried to mimic her—badly, I'm sure.
The wine helped, and by the second glass Melinda seemed more relaxed toward me—which told me exactly how tense she'd been holding herself, how carefully separate. I gave her a small, apologetic smile as our main course arrived.
“Sorry about the library," I mutt
