I sit back. “Well, for one thing, he is too gorgeous.”

“Always a terrible thing in a sexual partner.” Nora folds her arms over her chest. “What else?”

“We don’t have the same taste in movies, music, and art.”

“Good thing you are not starting a band, then. Hit me with your next one.” She rolls her eyes.

I give it some genuine thought. I may be difficult about dating, but I genuinely don’t think Dom and I would make a good couple.

“He is an extrovert. He likes doing stuff. I’m a homebody. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to fun.”

“You mean he’ll pull you out of your comfort zone? How dare he!” She clutches the fabric of her shirt next to her heart. I have a feeling even if I told her that Dom murders puppies in his spare time, she’d tell me it’s probably to make warm fur coats for orphans. There is no point continuing this debate. Nora wanted to make her point, and she did. I’m wasting my life away, shying away from a chance at happiness, and I will probably die alone in this apartment and have my face eaten by Loki until someone finds me.

“It’s done now, Nora. Let it go. I’m not going to go out with Dom.” I stand up and make my way to the kitchen, where I tidy up just to do something with my hands.

“Yeah. I gathered. All I’m saying is that next time—and there will be a next time, because you’re beautiful, funny, smart, and giving—make sure your heart is open. It’s a terrible existence. To feel like you’re not worthy of good things happening in your life.”

That might be the case, but that’s exactly how I feel.

A week later, I think about the death of Virginia Woolf.

More specifically, how she filled her overcoat pockets with rocks and marched into the river behind her house. I remember how hard I fought the tide on the night Joe saved me in Gran Canaria . . . and wonder if I’d do the same today. So much has changed since then. I can relate more to Virginia than to the Ever of six years ago. And that scares me.

I’m giving a bunch of teenagers and history buffs the Salem tour again. It’s a tough crowd this time. There are a few families with children under twelve. Three of them nag their parents about wanting to go potty, and when is the tour over, and why am I so boring, and who even cares about what Thomas Jefferson thought about the witch hunt trials.

I manage to push through, just barely. At the First Church in Salem, while telling the group about the legend of the Lady in Blue, I snap at a teenager who’s not-so-discreetly stepped on another kid’s foot to make her cry. Practically yelling at the teenager, I tell him that there won’t be a second strike and he will be banned from all tours for good. Which I have absolutely no authority to do.