The next time I see Mr. Faraway, it is at the large group activity, the one for which we had originally tried to coordinate a cup of coffee. That seems unlikely to happen now: The event’s speaker has canceled, so at the last minute, Mr. Faraway has been asked to give a speech instead. The subject is history, his favorite topic.

I arrive with The Child, who goes off to hang out with other children – his children – leaving me to myself. I chat with other ladies I know, and see him out of the corner of my eye, busy as always, rushing around. He sees me, though, and when he walks by and I am talking to some ladies he knows, he walks up and gives me a quick hug with one arm.

Great to see you, he says, then rushes off again.

A few minutes later, we are asked to take our seats, and he walks by me, and catches my eye, and smiles. I smile back and think, I guess this is how it goes, making conversation, everything seeming to be just as it always was. Maybe it is just as it always was.

The formal part of the event begins, and after some introductions, he begins his talk and slide show. He’s a good speaker, relaxed and engaging. And as he is talking, I realize, he is making references to me from the stage – private jokes, fit seamlessly into his speech. I glance around, but no one is looking at me or seems to have noticed.

The event breaks up, and a large group of us head over to a restaurant at a nearby shopping center, where nobody has made reservations, but the restaurant finds a group of tables together for us anyway. The Child sits at the children’s table, with his kids, while I sit down with a table of ladies and pick at a salad while listening to them discuss their diets; he takes the seat next to me and listens too. Afterward, the group dwindles in size, and groups of us take turns taking groups of children to various stores to check out video games or clothes, depending what they want to do at the moment.

After a while more, I realize the group has dwindled down to just me, and him, and our children, so I offer to buy everyone some cupcakes, and we all walk and chat together, and eat the frosting off cupcakes together, and it feels comfortable and ordinary.

It feels like it all fits together.

Driving home, I wonder what went wrong over dinner, to change Mr. Faraway’s demeanor so much, so quickly, and cause our evening to end with a dismissive goodbye. I think maybe I said something to offend, but I cannot imagine what it might have been. More likely, I think, he simply realized that there must be someone better out there: someone more thin, or more reserved, or younger, or blond, or whatever it was that he suddenly realized that he really wanted that I was not.

Things often seen wonderful onscreen and then disappoint in person.

But none of this feels quite right, and I can’t put my finger on it. I decide maybe I should say something, so I decide perhaps a simple text message saying thank you might help me figure it out. If he ignores it, then I know something happened, though I might never know what. If he replies, then I’ll deal with whatever comes. At least I’ll know, I tell myself.

It’s late, and I’m driving, and there’s no traffic at all, so I manage to hit green light after green light in a way that doesn’t seem possible. I finally pull off the main road for a moment, and park on the side just long enough to text: Thank you.

I start to head home and try to think about anything else. How fun it is to drive when there’s no other traffic. I zip across the bridge from Seattle toward my house.

My phone pings, then pings again.

Then again.

I can’t read them with the car moving, and there’s noplace I can stop. I get home quickly, though, and say goodnight to The Child, and then check my phone.

Thank you, he replied, that was fun! He was delighted to discover I was familiar with the movie Battleship Potemkin.

I texted back: I was a film major, it was an important movie … and I enjoyed the evening very much.

And a few minutes later, he replies again, telling me what a delight it all was, and what a wonderful companion he had.

The following afternoon, he texts again, just to let me know how much he enjoyed our dinner, and thanking me.

I reply, I should be the one thanking you – I hope we can do it again sometime.

This time, though, he does not reply.

I am nervous, nervous as I drive to meet Mr. Faraway. I’m not clear whether it’s a date or not: it started as coffee during the day and morphed into dinner at a Japanese restaurant that I picked out. I try to think about things to talk about that aren’t his divorce or our kids or board business. He gets there first, so when I arrive, I see him waiting outside, wearing his suit from work and weighed down with two large tote bags, filled with books and things he wants to discuss with me.

He’s brought the conversation with him, packed it very carefully ahead of time, but even though he’s got quite the load, he steps ahead to open the door for me.

My father warned me this might happen, and lectured me about how to do this: on his last visit, he tried to hold a door for me and I crashed into it. It made him mad – not at me, but at The Departed, who, my father surmised correctly, had never held a door for me during our marriage.

I’d lost the skills I needed to let someone be gracious to me, so I reminded myself to step back a little bit, and allow Mr. Faraway to do these things. And when he does, I think, perhaps such a little thing should not be such a big thing.

I savor it anyway.

We sit at a large round table in a booth, so we’re sort of facing each other but also sort of next to each other, and I rest my arm on the back of the booth as we talk over drinks. He has a book about the history of the Latvian town my great-grandfather is from: This town is significant, he tells me, and then tells me why, and shows me the section from the book about it. There’s another book, too, that mentions some other ancient ancestor of mine, and he tries to explain it and I try to follow along. There’s a lot of information, a lot to follow. I listen and smile and mostly I’m just watching him as he talks – he leans toward me and shifts toward me and occasionally I feel his leg brush against mine with all the shifting.

Partway through dinner, though, something changes. He has started sitting back – he’s moved slightly away from me, even folding his hands at times. I don’t shift at all, and the conversation continues, but it becomes slightly more reserved, and I wonder what I’ve said to cause this.

The check arrives, and I remind myself, again, to allow him some space. I try not to glance at it, and wonder what to do. It sits, unremarked upon, while we finish our drinks and notice that it’s gotten fairly late, and I’ve got The Child at home and should probably get going.

I go to the ladies room, and when I return, the check is gone and he’s chatting with the bartender.

As we head outside, he asks where I’m parked, and I say, not far.

Okay, he says, and after a brisk hug, he says goodnight and heads off quickly in the opposite direction.