“So this is thirteen?”

I only smile.

“Right?”

“I’m not telling you.”

We are both playful grins.

“Come on. I lose track.”

“Well, what year were we married?”

His eyes travel to the dim ceiling of the restaurant as he visibly counts with his lips. I take another bite of tilapia that resolves any ill feelings I’ve ever had of this man. Because it’s that fantastic.

“Thirteen?”

“All your answers are coming out as questions.”

I smile again, unable to resist his boyish laugh. His real laugh.

“We were married in 2002 so it’s twelve,” I say.

“Twelve. Wait,” he says flicking his fingers to check. “Wow. Twelve.”

“No.” And I can’t wait to see his face. “We were married in 2001 and it’s thirteen.”

“So I was right the first time!”

I giggle. Dessert, please.