“I want the freedom money gives me, but I’d rather have earned my own.”

“It is your own.”

“You know what I mean. If anything, it should go to the Tylwyth Teg, for finding me rich parents. Which brings up a whole other category of subjects I’d rather ignore tonight.”

“I always wanted a Victorian house,” he said.

“Like Rose’s?”

“No, I want a haunted one.”

I laughed. “You want pet ghosts?”

“Not haunted by ghosts. Just haunted.” He passed me the wine. “We forgot glasses.”

I drank from the bottle. “Mine now. I have cooties. Little guys, with wings.”

He retrieved the bottle. “I believe I have the same ones.”

“So, your haunted house,” I prompted.

He drank deeply, his eyes tearing at the corners, as if he were slugging hundred-proof moonshine instead of Bordeaux.

“There was this house,” he said. “When I was a boy. We moved a few times, but it was often within walking distance. It was condemned and boarded up. An old Victorian on a street of slums. I thought it was the fanciest house I’d ever seen. It probably reminded me of Rose’s, but it was this big, run-down, rambling place. Inside, though, you could see hints of what it had been. The flooring. The plasterwork. Even some antique furniture. It felt haunted, but in a good way. Memories and history. I would find things inside and imagine the families that had owned them. I used to tell myself that one day, when I was financially well off, I’d go back and fix it up.”

“Is it still there?”

He shook his head. “Long gone. Demolished. I’d never have bought it. Practicalities.” He snuck a look my way. “I can’t avoid them.”

“No one can, not if they have a drop of sense. You’d go back, and you’d see that it’d be a money pit in a bad neighborhood, and you’d feel like you’d lost that dream. Better it was removed due to circumstances beyond your control.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly.” He sipped from the bottle this time. “I would have felt guilty choosing, too. I’d want the condo, and I’d feel like I abandoned the house. Which sounds silly.”

“It’s not about the house. It’s about the dream.”

“Yes.” Another gulp of wine before he passed it back. “The condo was a dream, too. When I was in college, I had to do a joint project. Normally, I could wriggle out of them or do all the work myself, but this guy insisted on working together. We’d go to his father’s, an apartment in the building where I live now. I’d see that view and . . .”

“You wanted it.”

“I did. Part of it was just setting the goal. This is what I’ll have someday. A status symbol. But really, I wanted the view.”

“It’s a million-dollar one.”