I lug my overnight bag outside and hand it to the driver. He opens the door and I find Gabe in the backseat.

“Oh,” I say, sliding in next to him.

“Do you mind?” he asks. “I figured it would make things a little easier.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t mind.”

I do. I thought I would have a little more time to brace myself for what was coming next. Thought I’d have the car ride to LAX to prepare.

Still, I remind myself, there’s no rush.

“I told you I’d get you out to Montana,” Gabe says.

“Don’t get cocky,” I say.

His smile droops, but just a little.

It’s uncomfortable here in the backseat. The driver has the radio on, but whatever is playing seems to be drowned out by the incredibly awkward tension between me and Gabe.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” I finally say.

He shifts, turning toward me.

“I’m not sure either,” he says. “But what’s the worst that could happen?”

It’s not exactly a statement that inspires confidence in me. I don’t like not knowing. The last time I did something this impulsive, I ended up living in New York for almost eight years.

“I think you’ll like Montana,” Gabe says. “We have seasons.”

“Never heard of them,” I say.

He grins, and I can’t help but do the same. I really like the gray in his hair—some of it sprinkled throughout his beard as well. I like the lines bracketing the corners of his eyes.

“I heard they had those in New York,” he says. “Seasons.”

My smile drops away.

“Yes, well,” I say.

“Is he still there?” he asks as if he doesn’t know the answer. “The Novelist?”

“Jeremy,” I say. “He loves it.”

“You didn’t.”

Since he knows about my newsletter, he can probably gauge how I felt about living in New York.

“I didn’t think you would,” he says.

“You don’t know me that well,” I say.

He shrugs. “You said you didn’t like the city,” he reminds me.

I hate that he remembers our conversations. It makes all of this so much harder. Makes it harder to be angry at him. And I want to be angry at him.

It’s easier than being angry at myself. It’s easier than being scared.

“I didn’t know what I was talking about back then,” I say. “I’d never lived there before.”

“But you knew you didn’t like it.”

“What did I know?” I ask. “I was twenty-six. You don’t know anything at twenty-six. I’m astonished by my own arrogance. Of thinking I knew anything.”

“Isn’t that always the case?” he asks. “Don’t you think you’ll say the same thing ten years from now?”

“Yes,” I say, my hackles up.

“You’re awfully hard on yourself.”