Maggie shrugged. “Bob told me. He was very proud of you.” She smiled. “You’ve come a long way since you got here, Laura.” She snapped her fingers. “Why don’t you take the truck? He left me the keys.”

“Wait, what?” Laura was confused. “Didn’t he drive the truck to the airport?”

Maggie shook her head. “No, he took a Lyft and parked the truck in the driveway. By the basketball hoop.” She laughed. “He was actually worried in case you got pissed that he’d blocked the hoop, which is why he left me the keys. He wanted you to be able to move it.” She walked over to a ceramic chicken that lived on the counter and contained all the keys, and fished around. She held up Bob’s keys, the Dodgers key fob turning in the light.

“See?” she said, and smiled.

“I can’t . . .” said Laura, feeling panicked. “I don’t even know how to get to the airport.”

“Doesn’t the truck have GPS?”

Laura shook her head. “It’s too old, it has a CD player, for crying out loud.”

Maggie shrugged. “Use your phone.”

Laura shook her head. “I can’t.”

Maggie sighed. “So call him. Call him and tell him how you feel.”

Laura gazed at her. Maggie was right, she could call him. Or even text him, maybe. She’d waited weeks already, holding her feelings close to her chest, but now waiting another day felt impossible, and telling him in person felt imperative. She wanted to see him, now, tell him, now, and kiss him, immediately.

She took a deep breath, and shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I’m not so good at talking, I think I better do it in person.”

“Bold choice,” said Maggie, and threw her the keys.

•   •   •

Laura climbed into the driver’s seat of the truck. It smelled of Bob, and reminded her of all the times she’d driven, and how good it felt sitting next to him when he was driving, and how good it felt sitting next to him wherever they were.

“You can one hundred percent do this,” she told herself, and pulled out her phone, plugging in the address for LAX.

She started to feel dizzy and nauseated. She called Polly.

“Hey,” said Polly, who was apparently answering the phone while standing in a nightclub. “What’s good?”

“Not much,” said Laura, trying not to hyperventilate. “I’m about to start driving to the airport to try and reach Bob before he leaves so I can tell him that I think I’m falling in love with him.”

“Fair enough,” said Polly, as if people said that kind of thing to her each and every day. “How can I assist?” There was a particularly raucous burst of yelling, and Polly covered the phone. Then she returned. “I would come and drive you myself, but unfortunately Darren—the SnaggleBuggle guy, do you remember?”