“God, take it down a notch, psychos,” I say, laughing in spite of myself. They’re enjoying this way too much. “At first he was this fun distraction from what was going on with Mom and my complete lack of a good job and all those quarter-life crisis things no self-respecting person over thirty has any sympathy for.”

I pick up a paper napkin and start tearing it into little strips. “Then I started thinking about Finn more than I was thinking about anything else, and he had this boat thing going on—though I didn’t know the details until later—so we sort of agreed to cool it.”

“And?” Mia asks.

“And... then I was having fun trying to figure out how to fix his problem, and we were spending a lot of time together because you assholes were busy with work or husbands or totally oblivious to the men who are blatantly in love with you.”

“Wait. What?” Lola asks.

Ignoring her, I continue quietly: “Finn is sweet, and funny and stoic in this way that is totally foreign to me but I actually really appreciate, coming from the Family That Discusses Everything. And he’s hot. Dear Lord, you guys. Finn in bed is no joke. And he’s not a whiny La Jolla mama’s boy, he’s a man who was raised to get shit done, and not cry over hangnails. Finn could break your vagina and be just handy enough to put it back together.” I pick at the sleeve of my sweater, dropping my voice even more. “He looks at me like he adores me, but then he’ll make fun of me—which I like, turns out—and he started to feel like my guy, you know?” I don’t even care that I’m babbling now; I’m just letting it all out. “He looks at me like we have this little secret, and we do. My secret is that I fucking love him. And he was a jerk today.”

Mia puts her hand on my arm and slides it down, weaving her fingers with mine. “Harlow?”

I look up at her. Mia and Ansel have been married since June, but only a little over two months ago they had a huge fight, something so huge and hurtful between them that I could see on her face she was worried she might have lost the thing she wanted more than anything in the world—even more than to erase the accident that shattered her dream of dancing for a living: her marriage.

So I know what she’s going to say before she even opens her mouth.

“You just have to go fix it,” she says simply. “He’s mad, you’re hurt. But as clichéd as it sounds, none of that really matters in the long run. Just go talk to him.”