Jenna is still not here, but my curiosity about Nolan and my reluctance to think about the world that awaits my return is something of an anchor, and for once I feel truly present.

I can smell the lake and the trees and the dampness of Wally’s huge paws. I can feel the pebble in my shoe rubbing against the side of my foot. I can hear the waves lapping against the long stilts of the renovated boathouse. I’m here, in this space, with the N. E. Endsley, and I sense that he’s at least not not trying, and I can work with that.

The aforementioned world-famous author drags two beanbags from their stack and into the center of the floor, which is covered by a large area rug made to look and feel like the world’s softest grass. I can’t help but watch him, curious how he moves and breathes and exists. He’s taken off the bulky sweater and his muscles move beneath the sleeves of his shirt. I look away, embarrassed for noticing. Authors are supposed to be wan and tormented, not flushed and leanly muscular.

Nolan gestures for me to sit, an invitation. Still feeling like I might as well push my luck—Six days; only six days echoing in my mind—I drag my beanbag a smidgen closer to his before sitting.

“So. This is your fort?”

“This is the fort,” Nolan says. He’s looking around the room, too, like maybe he’s trying to see it through a newcomer’s eyes. I can almost see the inability, his eyes blandly running over the familiar kid’s tent, the rug, Wally already snoring in a dog bed that sits beside the writing desk, the bulletin board full of thumbtacked sheets of stationery and greeting cards.

“Fan letters?” I ask.

A grim shake of the head. “Of a sort, I guess. They’re thank-you letters. From my publisher.”

“Really? So many?” There are at least a dozen.

“The sales of my second book warranted a Christmas bonus for some of the employees directly involved in the business stuff. Many thought it was thank-you-note worthy.”

“That’s amazing,” I say, shifting forward. I move to stand and examine some of these letters, but before I can rise, before the thought is even fully formed, Nolan juts his arm out and pulls me back down.

“No,” he says. “Don’t.”

I hear what he doesn’t say: he doesn’t want to talk about his books.

“Okay,” I say, holding my hands up in mock surrender. I give a pointed look at where his hand still grasps my arm.

“Sorry,” he says, quickly dropping his arm back to his side. “Sorry. I’m not used to being around…”

“Girls?” I finish for him.

“People.”