Dawn is kissing me back! It’s gentle and slow and sweet, and it keeps going. And in this moment on this perfect afternoon, I feel like the wind has scooped us up and we’re soaring around with a warm flurry of butterflies in a gentle tornado of bliss, and I never want to go back down to the cold hard ground where I was 24/7 before I came out to California.

When the kiss breaks, Dawn spends a long moment with her hand in my hair, studying me. Her fingers dance through the strands and it feels amazing.

“You hair is so … thick and heavy.”

“I like you,” I say immediately. “I think you’re beautiful and the nicest human being I’ve maybe ever interacted with.” I glance down at my hand which is now covered and dripping with cricket mint ice cream.

Dawn clasps her hand around my wrist, brings the dripping mess up to her mouth, and takes a giant bite. She cringes as she crunches down on the bugs, but her lips turn up in a smile as she finally swallows.

Her eyelashes flutter upward. “Today is evolving into one of those very rare perfect days.”

I don’t think I’m breathing. I blow out a pent-up breath. Yeah, I had stopped breathing. I nod.

Her eyebrows pull together. “The plan is for you to head back home to New York when these four days are over?”

I press my lips together and nod again.

“Then should we just go full carpe diem today and enjoy the shit out of it?”

It feels like there’s a helicopter launch happening in my chest. “I would love to spend the rest of today carpe diem-ing with you.”

“I’m gonna silence this.” She pulls out her phone. “We can deal with non-perfect things tomorrow.”

I pull out Gladys and do the same. I’ll call Jamie to catch her up on the gig tonight when I get home.

“You still want to get pizza next?” I ask.

“We must! Amazing pizza place and then back to my house?” she suggests.

I beam at her. “Okay.”

She grins. “But first, it’s mandatory you try my ice cream because it’s like a thousand times better than yours.” She shoves her melty cone under my nose.

64. A Girl Needs a Break

JAMIE

September 6, Sunday Morning

New Jersey

Mara’s Toyota is idling in the driveway when I walk outside. I don’t know if she came home at all last night. She rapped on my door at 8 a.m. to let me know she’d be waiting to take me to my therapy appointment at 10:30.

Mara says nothing when I load into the car. We sit together in awkward silence for a decent stretch of the drive before she loses it.