But I’m starting to realize what I want to do with my life.

“You’re getting better. Stronger. I like that.”

“What about you?” I jerk my chin toward him.

“I work, I eat, I write, repeat.” He takes a pull of his beer.

“Are you dating anyone?” The question rolls out of my mouth before I can stop it. This is the problem with Joe. He makes my mouth and my brain disconnect from one another whenever he is around.

He smiles a closemouthed smile, then mimics zipping his lips shut and throwing the key off the mountain. He enjoys my squirming.

I snort out a nervous laugh. “It’s whatever, Joe. I honestly don’t care. I’m the one who keeps on leaving, remember?”

This is untrue, and also self-deprecating, but it’s how I sometimes feel.

“I understand why you stopped answering me after Spain. And I understand why you left Salem too.” Joe puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m just at a place where I cannot have my heart broken again, no matter the reason.”

That’s when everything gets heavy and dark and wrong. I regret asking him about other women. I never get the answer that I want. And worst of all, I can’t even blame him. He shouldn’t be expected to wait around until I pull my head out of my ass.

“To your question.” He rubs at my arm with an easy smile. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Some would argue you saw plenty of the women you had a threesome with.” Cool, cool, cool. I’m the obsessed rejected stalker now. What a terrific look.

He waves me off. “That was a high school pal who came to Salem for a visit. She called, and we went out for drinks. It was right around my birthday, and she wanted to celebrate. One thing led to another.”

“That’s just one woman, though. How did it become a threesome?” I refuse to let the subject go. I hope the CIA is recruiting soon. I could use a job.

“The bartender.” He smiles apologetically.

“You should stop smoking.” I change the subject.

“Why?” He takes out the soft Lucky Strike pack and tucks a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, just to spite me.

“Cancer.”

“If I die, it’s on me.”

“What a selfish thing to say.” I scowl. “If you die, you leave everyone else to cope and grieve. Your parents have been through enough.”

“Maybe, after I finish the book.”

“That’s a week away.” My voice brightens.

He chuckles. “After revisions.”

“That could take years!”

“Yup. I can work with that timeline.”

We talk for hours after that. About books, music, films we’ve recently watched. About the correspondence he’s had with two literary agents who are interested in Winds of Freedom.