I can barely speak I’m so out of breath. This is a great cardio. Axe murderers must be in excellent shape.

Joe shakes his head. “I think I’m done.”

“Come on. One more.” I smile. Yes, actually smile. And maybe it’s because I make an effort—because I try to be normal—that he humors me and takes the axe.

He swings the axe and smashes it against the hood, making the entire car collapse flatly on the ground, demolishing it.

“This is for falling in love with the right girl at the wrong time, and still fucking paying for it,” he says quietly, looking at me.

I turn my face to look the other way. “Let’s go home.”

After a quiet drive back, we take the elevator up to his apartment. I ask Joe if it hurts to still live here.

“In some ways, yes. In others, it makes me feel more connected to him. So I don’t want to make any sudden moves right now.”

We walk into the apartment. It looks much better than it did the day of Scone-gate. Tidier, even kind of nice. I realize he got himself together in the months since he found out Dom and I were together.

Joe starts working on dinner in the kitchen while I perch on the couch and stare at the ceiling. The scent of grilled steaks, steamed broccoli, and herbed potatoes hits my nostrils. He plates the food, then brings it over to the coffee table, where we both sit on the floor in front of the TV.

“Romantic,” I joke.

Joe walks past me straight to the table. “Be as sarcastic as you want. You’ll be singing a different tune when you see what we’re watching.”

What we’re watching is Dumb and Dumber. It’s an oldie but goodie. It is also exactly what we need. It is funny, it doesn’t require us to follow a plotline, and it gives us something to talk about as we dig into the food. Joe insists I eat at least three florets of broccoli, and I make a show of squirming and moaning as I do. When we’re done, I collect and wash the dishes. This is the most normal I’ve felt in a while.

“Do you have anything to drink?” I ask him as I run a kitchen towel over the plates, drying them before putting them back in their place.

Joe throws the fridge open and peers inside. “Water, orange juice, Coke. I can make you some coffee if you want. No sugar, though. That shit’s toxic.”

Said the smoker. Watch out, Dr. Oz. You have some competition.

“I was thinking something stronger.”

He looks up, tilting an eyebrow up. “Bad idea.”

“I haven’t drunk anything alcoholic in weeks.” Actually, since Gemma’s sixtieth birthday dinner. “And I think we have a lot to talk about. I need liquid courage.”