But he just nodded. Sighing, I led the way. This was going to be even worse than I’d thought it would.

Inside the restaurant, I headed to my favorite table, the one Ruth and I share most Saturday nights, while I chow down on the free chips, and she plows through the guacamole (Ruth had finally managed to shed those extra forty pounds she’d been carrying around since sixth grade by avoiding anything with flour or sugar in it). The table is by the window, so you can watch all the weirdos who walked by. They don’t call it Hell’s Kitchen for nothing.

“Hey, Jess,” said Ann, our favorite waitress, as Rob and I sat down. “The usual?”

“Yes, please,” I said, and Ann looked questioningly down at Rob. I knew what Ann would say next time I saw her, and Rob wasn’t around: “Who was the hottie?”

“Just a beer,” Rob said, and after Ann had rattled off the restaurant’s extensive list of brands, he picked one, and she went away to get the drinks. And the tortilla chips.

We sat for a minute in silence. It was still early for dinner—people in New York don’t generally even start thinking about dinner until eight or even nine o’clock—so we were the only people there, besides the wait staff. I tried to concentrate on what was happening outside the window, as opposed to what was across the table from me. It was a little overwhelming to be in this place I’d been to so many times, with someone I’d never in a million years pictured being there with me.

Rob was nervous. I could tell by the way he kept rearranging the silverware in front of him. In a second, he would begin to shred his paper napkin. He was looking around, taking in the sombreros on the wall, the chili-pepper lights around the bar, and the people walking by outside. He was looking at everything, in fact, except me.

“So,” I said. Because someone had to say something. “How’s your mom?”

He seemed startled by the question.