I twist my wrist and check the time. Only five minutes have passed since the beginning of the tour. Eighty-five more to go.

“Are you all right?” One woman steps forward, resting a hand on my shoulder. “You look pale.”

I shoot her a smile. “Yes. Of course. So!” I clap my hands, returning to the center of the group, determined to survive tonight. “Well, my dear morbid friends. We’re going to cover some of Salem’s history, including the witch hunt hysteria of 1692. We’ll talk murders, ghosts, curses, civil war. All the fun stuff!”

Everyone giggles.

Everyone but him.

The next hour and a half is pure torture. I pretend that Joe doesn’t exist, even though the world seems like it’s resized itself around him. I’m acutely aware of everything coming out of my mouth. I don’t veer off script or crack a joke. I’m in a minefield, tiptoeing my way to safety.

Eventually, the hour and a half passes, albeit six days later. I sum the tour up as I always do. “Two misbehaving young girls who got misdiagnosed by a doctor as under the devil’s hand started a craze. Divided a community. Planted seeds of hatred in every heart in the colonies. But make no mistake—this wasn’t the girls’ fault. We still have a long way to go in terms of unity, and the best way to start? With ourselves and our own prejudice.”

People clap. I stay behind to answer some questions. Joe hangs back, leaning under a lamppost, the light from his phone screen illuminating the chiseled planes of his face. He is waiting for me, and a mixture of excited nausea and dread fills me.

He is so gorgeous, so alive, so real, that his mere presence here throws me off kilter.

Once the last of the tourists have trickled away, I walk toward him. We stand in front of each other like two drunk fools getting ready for a duel.

I cross my arms over my chest. “What happened to staying away from each other?”

Joe flicks the back of his Lucky Strike soft pack. One cigarette pops from its opening. He raises the pack and clasps the cigarette between his teeth, then lights it nonchalantly. “This is not a social call.”

I inwardly laugh at my young self. The one who fell in love with him. He is such a bad-boy cliché. Only I know in Joe’s case, he’s the real deal. There are no hidden personality traits, no fine print. If I had to guess how he eats his fried chicken, I’d say he annihilates it, just like everything else he touches. He is a storm, and I’m lightning, and whenever we meet, there is chaos.

“Yeah. I gathered. What do you want to talk about?”

“Not here.” He shakes his head. “Your place?”

“Ha! For you to even suggest that . . .”