“No, not for nothing. You once asked me what I miss most about LA and here’s the real answer. I love when you’re in your car and the music on the radio overtakes you, so you pump it up so loud it vibrates through the steering wheel. The bass hits, you’re gliding along the 405—which never happens unless you hit it just right, on a Sunday morning maybe—you’re soaring along, you own the whole city, and when that perfect song hits, it creates this dome around you in your car. You’re moving around amongst all these other people but they can’t touch you.”

“Sounds lonely,” he points out.

“It was safe,” I tell him. “Because it was separate. I had my own bubble, and I never had to hear other people’s noises, never had to bump up against the rest of the world. I would go to work, and I would come home, and sometimes I would smoke pot and numb myself to every kind of emotion. I don’t want to do that anymore. These past few weeks with you, I’ve felt so many things, good and bad, but even getting hurt . . . it’s not as bad as not living.” I scramble to locate and open my notebook—flipping past the Table of Champions chart—and show him my new list. “There’s so much I want to see in New York, so many things I’ve never done. I haven’t ridden the Circle Line yet or eaten at a Russian supper club or browsed the shelves at the Strand bookstore. I haven’t taken a horse-drawn carriage around Central Park or wandered the marble cemetery in the East Village or toured the row houses and jazz museum of Harlem or pitted the best pizza places against each other or tasted enough exotic dishes at Chelsea Market or explored Museum Mile or watched my breath swirl in the air while ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. I haven’t even seen a Broadway show!”

Miles looks at my list, touching each item like it’s a precious thing and I know it is, to him. “The new walking tours have a lot of those things covered.”

I take his hands in mine, and look him straight in the eyes. “I want to hear them in your voice. Because I want you walking beside me while you speak. I’ve fallen in love with New York and I’ve fallen in love with you, too.”

He opens his mouth but I reach over and press a light fingertip against his lips.

“Will you show me your New York? Can we start fresh?”

His response is to cup my face in his hands and pull me in for a passionate kiss. It feels like coming home.

“Yes, yes,” he murmurs, when we break apart. His thumb gently brushes a tear from my cheek. He leans in and kisses the spot where it slid.