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The waitress arrives with our salads. We’re quiet as she sets down the plates and wishes us buon appetito. She refills Mason’s wine glass, then leaves. We munch for a while, until I can’t hold my tongue any longer. “There’s something I need to say to you.” He freezes. “Oh God.” “Don’t be such a wuss. It’s not bad.” “I’ll be the judge of that.” He sits back, bracing his arms against the table. “Go ahead, then.” “Look at you, drama queen. You’re sitting over there like you’re facing a firing squad.” His tone is bone dry. “You say that like you’re not a firing squad.” I wave him off impatiently. “What I need to say is this: I can’t in good conscience set you up with anyone if you can’t promise me that you’ll give her a real chance.” When his face darkens, I say, “Hold on, you can yell
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