“Would it be possible for me to get more of this,” Ansel asks her, holding up a small white bowl filled with some sort of brown sugar mix. “I have a . . .” He stops to tap a finger against his mouth, searching for the word. “A, um . . . comment ce dire? When you like sweet things?”

The waitress blinks at least three times, and even sways a little where she stands. I’m about to reach out and steady her when she finally shakes her head, eyes coming back into focus.

“A sweet tooth?” she asks.

“Yes! That’s it, a sweet tooth! And I would love more of this.”

Pink floods her cheeks and she nods, taking the bowl from him before wandering away from the table, in search of Ansel’s brown sugar.

“Jesus Christ, Ansel,” Oliver says.

“What?”

“I am totally telling Mia you did that,” I say.

Ansel dumps a bowl of blackberries into his oatmeal and looks up at each of us, blinking innocently. “Did what?”

“Why didn’t you just fuck her on the table?” I ask. “It would have been only slightly more awkward for us.”

“She’s probably pregnant now.” Oliver points his knife in the direction of the kitchen. “Try explaining that to your wife.”

Laughing, I say, “I bet she brings him every goddamn bowl of brown sugar they have in the place.”

“You’re both very funny,” Ansel deadpans.

“How is Mia, anyway?” I ask.

Ansel looks up at me with the most goofy, dimpled smile I’ve ever seen. “Perfect.”

“Ugh,” Oliver says, setting his fork down. “Do not get him started. Lola says she’s had to start warning them before she comes over. Last time she could hear them all the way down Julianne’s driveway.”

Ansel only shrugs, looking disgustingly pleased with himself. “What can I say? I am quite the vocal lover, and would never stifle the loud, satisfied cries of my wife during what is possibly the best sex anyone has ever had.” He leans in, looks us both in the eye in turn, and repeats, “Ever.”

Both Oliver and I burst out laughing when we realize that, at some point during this monologue, our waitress has materialized at the table and placed a giant bowl of brown sugar in front of Ansel. I’m not sure how much she just heard, but judging by the blush creeping up her neck and flashing hotly across her face, I’m guessing it was enough.

“Merci,” Ansel says again, smiling widely.

The poor girl mumbles “You’re welcome,” before she turns and heads back to the kitchen.

“I hate you,” Oliver says.

“You wouldn’t hate anyone if you were getting a little yourself.”

“He’s got a point,” I agree.

Oliver takes a bite of his breakfast, shrugging.

“Come on. You’re a good-looking, successful guy,” Ansel says. “Why aren’t you seeing someone?”

“Are we really doing the Sex and the City thing right now? In case you haven’t noticed, Carrie, I just opened the store. When would I have the time to meet anyone?”

“Who’s Carrie?” I ask.

Ignoring me, Ansel says, “Are you kidding me? I’ve only been there a few times and it’s crawling with weird hot chicks.”

“Eh. I’m not really looking.”

Ansel narrows his eyes. “Not looking? That doesn’t make any sense. You have a penis.”

Oliver laughs. “I do.”

“You’ve never had a problem getting laid and yet I haven’t seen you with anyone but Lola since I got—” Ansel stops, his mouth forming the word for a few beats before he says, “Ohhhh. I get it.”

“ ‘Oh’?” I repeat, glancing between them. “Get what?”

“You like Lola.”

Oliver is already shaking his head. “No, no, I don’t. We’re just friends.”

“ ‘Friends,’ ” Ansel and I repeat in unison.

“Honestly. I like her. But not like her like her. She’s smart and fun to hang out with, that’s it.”

Jesus Christ, he is a terrible liar.

“You two were married,” I remind him.

“Yeah, but unlike you two, I never even kissed her.”

Ansel is already shaking his head. “We all kissed them. I even have the photo somewhere. She’s the hottest nerd girl alive.”

“Just because you got married doesn’t mean everyone else needs to settle down. Look at Finn.”

“Me?”

“Sure. I can only assume—and don’t try and deny it—you’ve been fucking Harlow the entire time you’ve been here and you’re not ready to propose.”

“Um,” I say, picking up my knife and digging into my food with renewed interest. “I mean, we’re . . . it might not be strictly just friends anymore.”

Ansel lifts his hand and cups it around his ear as if he didn’t hear me correctly. “Comment?” he says in French. What?

“I like her.” I bring my fork to my lips and hold it there, adding, “More than like her.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Ansel says, and I snort, taking the bite.

“Holy shit. Finn,” Oliver says. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously.”

“But, wait. You’re leaving,” he adds. “Aren’t you? I mean I know you haven’t really told me what you’re doing here, but I was never under the impression it was anything permanent.”

“It’s not. I’ve been looking into some business things, but I have to go back soon. I’m not really sure what Harlow and I are going to do.”

The table is silent and we each pretend to be interested in our food, everyone trying to process the giant admission I’ve just dropped like a bomb in front of us.

“You guys are good, though, right?” I ask Ansel. “You and Mia? Being apart.” Mia and Ansel have been doing the long-distance thing for a few months now, and if anything, they seem even more infatuated with each other than they did in Vegas.

Ansel leans against the back of the bench and exhales, this deep, long breath. It’s the kind of breath you take when you’re so full of something you feel like you might explode if you don’t let it out.

“Things are going . . .” He swipes his hand down his face. “I’m just so happy. The days when we’re apart are hard, of course. But when we’re together, it’s like I don’t even remember. None of that matters.”