I pick up the book sitting on the nightstand next to us. For Ever is literary fiction with a dash of mystery, a few twists and turns, and a lot of self-search. Joe changed the hero’s name to Ever—Everett—but every time I think about the new title, I know that it was a nod to me. We helped each other create when birthing something new seemed as wild as learning how to fly.

I run my palm over the hardcover. It’s blue and red, with the New Orleans landscape in the background. “I love everything about this book.”

“Of course you do.” Joe kisses my cheek, then takes the book and shoves it into a drawer. He is still embarrassed to call himself an author. “It is an elaborate love letter to you.”

“It’s about a guy who has one year to live, and he fucks the entire world in the process.” I frown.

“Yeah, well.” Joe waves a hand. “All the rest of it.”

We go down in the elevators. A maître d’ greets us at the front of the Vine. A black-and-gold room with elevator music and utensil-clicking sounds. Joe’s fingers float over the small of my back, which is exposed through a backless black dress. The hostess shows us to a long table, where, already waiting, are Gemma, Brad, Dad, Donna, Renn, Sarah, her husband, Rich, Nora (happily married), Colt (obviously ditto), and Pippa, who brought along a brand-new boyfriend whose name I refuse to remember until he passes the three-week test.

There is also Joe’s agent, Bianca, and a suit from his publishing house, who came with his wife and a monstrous stack of books for Joe to sign.

When they see my boyfriend, they all stand up and clap. Our table draws curious glances from other diners. I take Joe’s hand and raise it in the air in triumph, because it is a huge win that he managed to get his book published. He has already signed another book deal with the same publisher.

The New York Minute called For Ever “evocative and wild.” The Flying Pen said, “Joseph Graves is a master storyteller,” and Books Tribune called the novel “exhilarating and unforgettable.” Joe may be too humble to see himself as a successful author, but I, an (almost) objective observer, can tell he is already there.

“I still can’t believe I’m sleeping with a literary god,” I murmur into Joe’s ear as we proceed to our place at the table. He is shaking hands with people and whispers back through a tightly woven smile, “I can’t believe it either. Who are you cheating on me with?”