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“A friend of a friend recommended it. I moved in right before my first semester and never left. Andthatwas my study spot most days.” He turns us and then points to a table in the corner, partially obscured by a huge glass display case where mouthwatering sandwiches and pastries are laid out and calling my name.

“I’m going to need a new wardrobe if we stay here long. Good Lord, but no one can beat you Yanks when it comes to portion size.”

“That’s the first time you’ve called me that.”

“I guess…it’s the first time I’ve thought of you that way.”

“Mr. Solomon?” We turn to find a young woman, dark-haired and remarkably pretty, whose nametag reads Bianca holding a white pastry bag and a drink carrier. “Sweet asked me to bring this out and told me to say she was sorry, but she had to get something into the oven.”

“Thank you.” I take them out of her hands, and her eyes widen.

“Are you English?” Her voice has an awe in it that I don’t understand.

“I am,” I answer.

She beams and claps her hands together. “Oh my gosh, I love your accent. I love London. I’ve only been once but—” She claps a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I talk too much, and you’re taking this to go. Uh, Sweet put some of the garlic knots in there, but frozen so you need to heat your oven to 350 and pop them in for ten minutes,” she recites.

“Okay, thank you.”

“Gosh, I could listen to you talk…”

“Bianca, there are customers waiting,” Lo chides from behind the register, and her freckled cheeks flush.

“Bye for now. Nice to see you, Mr. Solomon. I’ll tell my dad you’re back.”

“Who’s her father?” I ask as we walk back out to the street where we parked and stroll to the car hand in hand.

“Remington Wilde.”

“Oh. The lawyer we spoke with. Oh my goodness, Wilde. Like the neighborhood.”

“Yes, his grandfather and father founded this place.”

“And that’s his daughter? It’s totally a family affair, huh?” I ask, excited and feeling a sense of longing that I wish I didn’t.“So is this like the high street?” I settle the food on my lap and buckle the safety belt.

“Yeah, I guess you’d call it that. The rest of the neighborhood shoots off from the roundabout at the top of the street.”

“Okay, and that’s where your house is?”

“Yes, I’ll show you as we drive. And later we can walk back down. It’s nice at night, too.”

“Okay,” I say, expelling a deep breath as my nerves start again.

“Don’t be nervous. They’ll love you.” He reads my mind and squeezes my hand before he pulls out of the parking spot and joins the light flow of traffic.

He drives like he does everything else: confidently and deliberately, but fast. The high street rushes past outside in a blur, but I make out a huge salon, a yoga studio, a greeting card shop, and a bookstore and make note of all of them.

“Wow, you don’t have to leave for anything, do you?”

“That’s the whole point,” he agrees as we approach the roundabout he mentioned. And it’s like stepping into an entirely different landscape than the high street. A seemingly endless stream of cars make their way around, and in the center is a huge brass horse with a crown on its head and a huge R and W on its chest.

“That way to the office park and the market, which is actually a huge food hall and market.” He points to the right as we pass the first offshoot. “That way to the high-rise community.” He points down a long street that appears to be another, more modern take on the high street. “There is where the schools, the management office, and the post office are.” He points down another long tree-lined lane. “And this is The Oaks,” he says as we turn onto a street flanked by bronze gates.

“This is the place you live if you want quiet mornings and evenings and space enough so your neighbors can’t hear you screaming when you come.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what they had in mind when they built it.” I give him an indulgent smirk before I turn my attention to the window. The houses that line this street are detached brick, two-story villa-like homes with large, beautifully manicured lawns and trees with large glossy green leaves and fat, lush cream-colored flowers hanging from them. Two women walk hand in hand behind three young children on bicycles with bright helmets and huge smiles.

A South Asian man stands in his driveway watering a flowerbed, and a woman with dark hair is kneeling down in the grass next to him, digging. Similar scenes greet me as we turn and meander deeper into the subdivision. The houses change, depending on the street, some small bungalows, some huge mini mansions, but there’s a cohesiveness in the sense they all give of being home, and refuge.