“How many letters is it?” I ask.

“Four.”

“And clues on the down?”

“Not yet.”

I can feel my forehead crinkle, the way it always does when I’m up against an ambiguous NYT crossword clue.

“Try ergo,” I say.

“E-R-G-O,” he says as he inputs each letter with a black ballpoint pen. “Actually, yeah. That works. Thanks, smartie.”

He sets the pen down and I watch him take a sip of his coffee. I’ve become remarkably comfortable in Brian’s presence since first worrying what he’d think of me bringing a dish towel over. But now he feels like a friend right now, my friend, and not just a guy who knew Decker—who knew me with Decker—and has to be nice by association.

“So, what’s on your agenda today?” he asks.

I tap the time on my watch, then slide over to my calendar app, which is of course blank due to my forced leave.

“After the wash, I’m thinking of driving up to Pala, actually. I got a Google alert that said there’s a weeklong farmers’ market going on. Proceeds go to rebuilding the farms that got damaged in the fire. Maybe I’ll run into other people like me there and we can brainstorm what to do with our urns. Or maybe we can just pool our money and go in on some crypts at that new mega-mausoleum on Gower,” I joke.

“Sounds fun. Want company? I could go for some vine-ripe tomatoes or a fresh fruit pie. Think they’ll have either of those?”

Vine-ripe tomatoes or fruit pie? Are we shooting a pilot for HGTV?

“Don’t you have to work?”

“Yeah, but not till tonight. Let’s go. I can drive the Tesla.”

“Tesla?”

“Graduation present.” He shrugs. “It gets forty-six miles to the gallon. What do you think?”

Between the job with kids and the concern for fuel efficiency, I think this is a much different Brian than the guy who hollered at chicks from his doorless Wrangler years ago. Who is this guy who suddenly cares more about miles per gallon than who’s bringing the Jell-O shots to the party?

Just then, there’s a chime from the laundry room. I’m reminded of the fact that his washer is doing something that no prescribed anxiety medication can do for me, which leaves little room to protest agreeing to make him my impromptu Pala wingman. I consider the urn safe while locked in my car, which is parked in a guest spot in Brian’s gated garage, and take him up on his offer—after he puts the Anthro linen in the dryer.

I want to say that riding shotgun in Brian’s Tesla will never get old, but I also don’t want to make a habit of this. I must admit, however, that when cruising down the 405 in a rare “light traffic” moment in LA, there are few other cars I’d rather be in. The scent coming out of the air-conditioning vents can be customized, for crying out loud. Today, Brian is pumping through the scent of “freshly baked waffle cones.”