He asked me to dinner.
Not on a rooftop, not for drinks, not in the professional language we had been using to give ourselves cover. An actual dinner invitation, direct and honest, the way he did everything.
"I think you know this isn't entirely about friendship," he said on the phone.
"I know," I said.
"And I know the timing is terrible."
"It really is."
"But I'd rather be honest about it than pretend."
I said yes. I told Dana, who looked at me over her coffee with an expression that contained both approval and concern, which was her default expression for most of my decisions.
"Just don't use him to avoid dealing with Marcus," she said.
"I'm not," I said.
"Make sure," she said.
The restaurant he chose was small and quiet, the kind of place that did not try to impress you with
