“I’m his evil twin, and he is currently tied up and gagged in the basement,” he answers without missing a beat.

“Oh, well.” I shrug. “What doesn’t kill you . . .”

He laughs. “Figured we’re not eighteen anymore. Might as well act our age.”

“Let’s not. Normal is so boring,” I reply.

He hands me one of the glasses. It’s a white wine. It smells fruity and oaky. I try the whole swirling and sniffing it thing but start cackling halfway through. So does Joe. Our eyes meet.

“Normal is boring,” he muses. “You’re right. Let’s never be pretentious old fucks.”

I nod. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Are we sure about getting drunk together?” I ask, taking a seat in front of the small table for two. I’m only joking. If this week has proved anything, it is that he doesn’t have a lick of interest in me. Which is fine. Great. I don’t want him to. Every time Joe and I reunite, the world around us shatters. And if he is not an option anymore . . . well, at least I won’t hate myself quite as much for not acting on my feelings toward him.

He is still standing up. He is looking around the room, like there’s something he wants to show me but doesn’t know how to broach the subject.

“Ever?” he asks.

“That’s my name.”

“I finished the book.”

“You . . . what?”

He crouches down to my eye level. His eyes are twinkling.

“It’s done. I wrote The End. I even used a different font, to be fancy and shit.”

“Not Times New Roman, I hope,” I say, which is a dumb thing to say, but also so us. Dom never would have gotten it. But Joe does.

He grins. “Cambria.”

I shoot up and fling my arms over him, squeaking. Wine sloshes over his shirt. We both ignore it. This is the best news. This book has been in the making for seven years. He finished it in a few short weeks. I cannot even begin to imagine what he must feel like. Even if it doesn’t get published. Even if it sits on his shelf to collect dust. He still did it.

But then I know exactly what it feels like. Because I designed Mom’s gravestone. I have finally created.

Joe pats my lower back, in a that’s-enough gesture. I disconnect from him, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. Touching wasn’t a part of the deal. Not since he came here to San Francisco.

“It’s just a first draft.” His hands linger around my waist, but he doesn’t hold me. “I’ll have to spend the next few weeks polishing it.”

“Doesn’t matter. Now you have something to polish. I’m really proud of you.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”