Olivia steered him into the living room and sat down on the couch.

“Okay. What’s going on? I know I don’t know you all that well, but you don’t seem like yourself.”

How could she see right through him like this?

He started to shake his head again, and she stopped him.

“Please don’t say ‘Everything’s great!’ again in that weird voice, or spout another fun fact at me. You’re not on TV right now, you know. You don’t have to tell me what’s up, but . . . is something wrong?”

He sat down on the couch next to her and took a deep breath.

“Do you know, I can’t remember the last time someone asked me that,” he said.

She put her hand on his shoulder. It felt really nice. Comforting. No one had comforted him in a really long time.

“I’m guessing that means the answer is yes. Do . . . do you want to talk about it? We don’t have to rush off to the Getty just yet, you know.”

He looked at his watch.

“We do if we want to get to see any of the art before sunset. Sunset is at sevenish, and by the time we get there, and park and everything, it’ll be— ”

She moved her hand down his arm and covered up his watch.

“We don’t have to go to the Getty tonight. It’s not going anywhere, we can go another time.”

Something in him thrilled at her implication that there would be another time, that they had a future together. But he still wanted to push on, to not admit defeat.

“Oh, but I know you wanted to go up there, and I have all this stuff for the picnic in the car. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine!” He flashed a bright smile at her and stood up.

She stayed on the couch.

“You’re doing it again. It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me what’s up, but don’t pretend to me, okay?”

He dropped back down next to her.

“I’m sorry. It’s just been . . . a tough day today, for some unexpected reasons. I didn’t want to burden you with all of that.”

She slid her hand in his.

“I have an idea. How about you go back to the car and get all of that picnic stuff, and bring it right in here, and I can open up that bottle of wine without having to pay for it, and we can sit here and have our picnic and relax.” Her eyes twinkled at him. “Plus, your hair still has that Ken doll look; you might get recognized at the Getty.”

He brushed his hand over his stiff hair, and shook his head.

“I can’t believe I forgot about that. You sure that’s okay?” he asked.

She stood up.

“I’ll open the wine right now.”

He went out to the car for the picnic supplies, and by the time he got back inside, she’d moved the coffee table to the far side of the living room and had spread a big blanket out on the floor, with the bottle of wine and two glasses in the middle of it.

“See what a good picnic we can have indoors?” she said when he came inside.

He dropped the bag down onto the blanket and unloaded it.

“And we don’t have to worry about the wind coming up and blowing the blanket away, or ants,” she said. She uncorked the wine bottle and poured wine for both of them.

“And we can use actual wineglasses instead of plastic,” he said. He touched his glass to hers.

She set to unwrapping all the food he’d brought.

“Ooh, you got some good stuff. I’m going to pretend I don’t see that pie until later, but I’m very excited about it. And this cheese looks oozy and perfect. I’m starving.”

He tore off an end of the baguette and handed it to her.

“Me, too.”

He hadn’t realized that until now.

She looked at him, and her expression softened.

“When did you eat last?” she asked. “Do they feed you at those things?”

When had he eaten last? That half a bagel he’d downed for breakfast while he read a stack of memos and briefing papers.

“Technically, yes, there’s usually food at these things—there was today. But the problem—and the thing I still forget, even though I’ve been in this job for going on two years now—is that even when there’s food I almost never get the opportunity to actually eat it.” He laughed. “Today wasn’t so bad, because the food was just things like sandwiches and vegetables and dip, but a few months ago I went to something in the Central Valley and there was all of this amazing Mexican food and I kept putting food on a plate and taking one bite and then having to shake someone’s hand or take a picture with someone else and my plate would disappear and I would get a new one and it would happen all over again. I think I gave up after my fifth plate and just made my staff go out to an enormous Mexican meal with me after we left.”

Olivia handed him a piece of baguette, covered in that good, oozy cheese.

“Here, eat this. I can’t have a senator faint from hunger in my living room. That feels like a felony of some sort.”

He looked away from her and pretended to check the bag to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He’d briefly forgotten why they were here on her living room floor instead of on their way to the Getty, but those jokey words of hers brought everything back.

He cleared his throat.

“I . . . the reason I was upset this afternoon . . .” He put his wineglass down and rubbed his temples. “It’s kind of a long story, we don’t have to go into all of that.”