And also because, for once, it feels good to be the one sharing the fun story. For so long our talks have been about Drew, the movie, and now the baby, while I’ve been talking about taking care of my dad, Milo coming back into town, and school. Sure, sometimes I get to share a fun story about a bad date, but those stories last for, at most, a few minutes of laughter. This feels bigger. This feels like more.

“Wow,” Annie says on an exhale. “Am I allowed to say I told you so?”

“You are not.”

“In that case . . . I will remain silent.” She tents her hands on the table, then says in a rush, “I told you so. Ugh, I couldn’t resist.”

I roll my eyes, even though I can’t help laughing. But then I see Annie grab her phone and start tapping the screen.

“Don’t tell Drew!” I say, reaching across the island to still her hand. “Are you gonna be one of those married ladies who’s like, ‘my husband is my best friend’ and tell him all my secrets?”

“I’m not telling Drew,” she says, shooting me a look. “I would never. I’m taking notes.”

An uneasy feeling starts in my stomach and blooms throughout the rest of my body. “Notes?”

“Yeah,” she says, looking at her phone. “That cute stuff Nick said when you guys were in bed. That’s good. And the way he made you a family recipe.”

“No,” I say, my voice so loud that Annie jumps.

“No, what?” she asks, looking at me in confusion.

“No notes,” I say, my voice rising even more. “Stop taking notes!”

Annie gives me a slightly condescending smile, like there’s something here I don’t understand. “Writing love stories is my job.”

“And this is my life.”

“Everything is copy, like Nora Ephron said.” Annie starts typing on her phone again. “And besides, I would never put anything directly from your life into a movie. You know that. I’d mix it up and disguise you.”

“You mean like how you named my character Zoe?” I say flatly. “And gave her a job at a coffee shop and a sick dad?”

Annie stops. “Wait, are you being serious right now?”

I shrug. “I guess I am.”

She squints at me and tilts her head, like I’m a dog and she’s trying to figure out why I won’t stop chewing on the sofa. “You didn’t tell me you were upset about this.”

“When would I get the chance?” I mutter. “You’re always off in LA, making movies about my life.”

“Excuse me?” Annie’s voice rises, which is unusual for her. She’s the queen of avoiding conflict, and I’m not a fan of it either, which means that the one and only serious argument we’ve ever been in happened in fourth grade when she insisted that Howie was the cutest Backstreet Boy (a statement that was categorically false).

“What did you want, Chloe?” she asks. “For me to not take a shot at my dream job? For me to not marry the love of my life? For me to stay here being miserable forever?”