She shakes her head. “I’m good. The schedule’s been a bit grueling, but I don’t mind showing you. Probably better,” she says. “No cameras. And I’ve been meaning to invite you for a while. It’s not a secret or anything.”

“But no cameras.”

She huffs quietly. “Okay, it’s sort of a secret. I don’t want Lyle or the crew in there. It’s my refuge. I don’t feel like they deserve to see that part of me.”

“Well, then, thank you in advance for showing it to me.”

The corners of her lips turn up in the streetlight. “You’re welcome.”

She’s quiet for a long moment and I’m about to turn on the radio to fill the silence when she speaks in a low voice.

“I’m not very good at sharing parts of myself, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’ve been hurt. It’s understandable.”

She nods. “It is.” This time her smile is full-blown and edged with cheerful self-deprecation. “It took me a lot of therapy to be able to admit that.”

“Is this the therapist you shared with Lorelai?”

She snickers softly. “Nah. The only thing I got from that particular therapist was a new best friend. Worth it, but the therapist herself was high-key weird. Lots of crystals, little substance. Not my jam.”

“I saw a therapist after Jackson wrapped. When I got back to Michigan.”

Her eyes dart to mine in the dark. “Really?”

I nod, watching the road. “Not for long. Actually, only once. My mom insisted. My dad and brother and I kept fighting. Like, not small fights either. They were these giant, knock-down, drag-out shouting matches that would rattle the rafters.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t imagine that, honestly. You’re always so … even-keeled,” she finishes finally.

“It was a lot of testosterone in a small house. We weren’t used to living together. I lived in L.A. for most of my growing-up years. And my dad wanted me to be more like Derek. Small-town athlete with college ambitions.”

“I overheard you tell my dad Derek still lives nearby?”

“He does. Between here and my mom’s. I haven’t been to see him yet.”

“We’ve been busy,” Shelby offers.

I grimace in the dark. “Not that busy.”

She doesn’t press. “You didn’t want the same things as your dad and Derek, I take it?”

I shrug. “I didn’t know what I wanted, honestly.”

“Except you didn’t want L.A.” I hear what isn’t being said. That I didn’t want her. Which isn’t true. It’s never been true. No time like the present to work on those communication problems.

“I couldn’t compete with L.A.,” I correct.

She presses her lips together and seems to be contemplating a response. “Did therapy help?”