"Outsmarted," he says morosely. Bends his head to kiss my neck. "Are you as warm as me?"
"Yes," I say, and hook my leg over his hip. It does nothing to keep either of us cool.
"I hate the city on days like this," he murmurs against my skin. "Do you have any plans this weekend?"
"No, not really."
"Montauk," he murmurs.
"Montauk," I whisper back.
It should feel strange packing my things with him in the apartment, or getting into the car with a driver he summons with a few clicks on his phone. But it doesn't. Not as he makes dry comments about what I pack that make me laugh, or when he's the one to leash Ace and give an approving click of his tongue when my dog heels.
Not as we arrive at the beach house paradise, the place he loathed for what it represented.
"Home sweet home," he says dryly.
I step past him into the kitchen. Set down the bag of groceries we'd stopped for on the kitchen counter. "Don't you think there's a way to still live in New York? After?"
"I can't imagine a more deadly situation than walking blind through the city," he says. I watch his back as he strides to the double-doors and opens them up to the patio and the white sand beyond. The ocean is a glittering blue in the distance. Ace weaves around his legs, tail wagging faster than I've seen it before, and Anthony bends down.
He's too far away, but I think I make out the words you like it here, don't you, boy? That's a good dog.
I smile down at the chicken filets we'd bought. My heart feels like it's doubling in size and constricting at the same time.
"I've seen people who were blind in the city before," I say instead. "On the subway."
"With a cane," he responds. Tugs off his jacket and throws it over the back of the sofa. The tone of his voice makes it clear that's not an option for him. "Come on. I want us to take a walk on the beach."
"Yes," he says. "What?"
"No, nothing. I'm down. I'm just surprised you're the one suggesting it."
He looks at me for a long moment, but then his lip curls. "Yeah. Well, I guess some of your seize-the-day nonsense has rubbed off on me."
I shut the fridge door with my foot. "Then let's squeeze all the juice out of this one."
The day doesn't complain, despite my brutal phrasing. We're both sweaty when we return with a sandy dog in tow. "Pool," I say, reaching for the hem of my T-shirt. "Now."
Anthony grins and reaches for his own. Here, beneath the sun, it's like he's a different person. The man I'd once seen sitting opposite me in the darkness feels a million miles away.
But I know he's not. He's here too, when he thinks I don't see him. The darkened eyes and scowl. Or, sometimes, the long looks when he's sure I won't notice.
I wish he'd share what he's feeling with me. To have a diagnosis like that, hanging like the sword of Damocles over one's future.
My heart aches. I wish he would let me tell him that, too. That he's worth staying with. Fighting for.
But most of all, I wish he'd believe that himself.
Anthony looks at me with those inscrutable eyes from the pool, his head slicked along his skull. I won't be surprised if he knows where my mind's gone. My parents still tease me about my lack of a poker face.
"Coming in?" he asks.
I nod, stepping out of my shorts, and dive into his arms.
It's late that night when I pull out the pièce de resistance, the thing I'd seen in the grocery store and been unable to resist. Somehow Anthony hadn't seen it in the checkout line.
"Marshmallows?" he asks. "And… graham crackers. Are you making some sort of dessert?"
"S'mores," I say. "We're making s'mores. How could you not have guessed that?"
He turns a chocolate bar over in his hands. "Right. I don't think I've ever had it."
"Please tell me you're joking."
"Okay. I'm joking."
"You're not very convincing."
He raises an eyebrow. "If it's so important to you, you should have asked me about it when you created my dating profile. It should make for a good prompt."
"I would've," I grumble, "if I knew I was planning on dating you myself."
Anthony laughs and reaches for one of the marshmallows. He pops it into his mouth and chews.
"These are really not that good," he says. It comes out half-mangled.
I laugh, pushing at him. "They're much better half-melted and gooey."
"Mhm. You sure about that?"
"One hundred percent. How have you never had these?"
He shrugs. "I've never been camping. But I trust you. You're a great cook."
The earnestness in his voice is what makes me blush. I make simple pasta dishes and know the incredibly complicated recipe for s'mores. But he's entirely genuine.
"Thank you," I murmur. "But it must be easy to impress a guy who mostly eats takeout."
His crooked smile is back. He reaches past me for the tray and we make it out to the patio. "I don't know," he says. "My mother used to cook a lot."
"Used to?" I ask.
"Still does, I suppose. But I haven't been there for a while," he says, pulling out my chair for me. It's such a quaint, old-school movement that I smile, but Anthony looks lost in thought.
I light the candles. Wrap a blanket around my shoulders and pull my legs up beneath me. The sun is setting, and it won't be long until the sky is star-filled and luminous.
"My parents have a family dinner every Sunday, without fail," he continues. "They'll invite people over. Aunts, uncles. Family friends."