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At the restaurant, the server came to take our order. I opened the menu. Before I could read a single line, Dante spoke over me.

"Nothing heavy. No cilantro in anything. No shellfish."

When the food arrived, he leaned toward Isobel, carefully arranging choice pieces on her plate. Then he slid a plate of shrimp in front of me.

"Isobel can't have shellfish. I ordered these for you."

I looked at the shrimp and felt my appetite evaporate. I set my fork down.

"I'm allergic to shellfish."

Dante had apparently forgotten. But he'd memorized every one of Isobel's dietary rules, down to no cilantro.

A flicker of guilt crossed his face. He ordered a few more dishes.

I didn't touch any of them. I just sipped my water in silence.