What would his parents think? What would the world think? The brother and the fiancée, finding comfort in each other’s arms. This is not the truth, of course. But people never want the truth. Only the juiciest, most easily digestible narrative offered to them.

“Ah, living gutless. It worked so well for you before, didn’t it?” Pippa teases. “There’s no way around it, Ever. If you want to be happy—you have to take chances. You have to open yourself up to getting hurt.”

“I’m scared to make a choice.” My voice cracks as I round the car into my neighborhood.

“You know what’s scarier?” she asks. “Not making one at all.”

Joe and I stay true to our promise to focus on work during the weekdays.

He doesn’t leave his hotel room. He writes nonstop. I find an artist to make Mom’s gravestone and start doing research on universities in both California and Massachusetts. I bookmark them online and send them to Dad and Donna.

I spend my evenings with Joe. We go to watch a live band, we eat seafood, and we catch a movie. There’s an underlying weirdness between us, but neither of us points that out. He treats me like I’m his baby sister. I treat him like he is a surly tourist. The week zips by fast. Too fast. A part of me grieves my last night with Joe. Another part of me is relieved. I’m tired of waiting for the clock to hit seven every day. Tired of counting back the hours, and the minutes, and the seconds until I see him. I’m exhausted. Of loving him in secret. Of pretending like I’m okay with what we are. With what we’re not.

And it hits me, on my way to Joe’s hotel. What am I doing? I have no business applying to schools in Massachusetts. If I stay in touch with him, he is going to detonate whatever is left of my heart into millions of microscopic pieces.

It is Joe’s last evening. Tomorrow morning, he boards a plane back to Boston. We’ve both decided we’ll order room service and stay in. When I arrive at his room, the food is already there, covered by silver cloches. Joe looks extra handsome. He’s clean shaven, his hair still damp from the shower.

The place is a huge mess, just like his apartment. I like it. The chaos. How he thrives in it. I drop my backpack on his unmade bed and park my hands on my waist. “The room’s never going to recover from your visit. You have a talent for ruining everything you touch.”

“Same could be said about you,” he deadpans. “Have a seat.”

He cracks a bottle of wine open, then pours both of us glasses.

“Wine?” I feel my eyebrows rising. “Who are you, and what did you do to Joe?”