I should go to sleep. I should definitely let Nick go to sleep. In fact, he isn’t saying anything, so he might already be asleep.

“Hey, Nick?”

“Hmm?” he says, his voice low and sleepy.

“You ask me all the time what I want. But what about you? What do you really want to do with your life?”

Nick exhales. “Big question. Not all of us have as much drive and talent as Chloe Sanderson.”

“I don’t—”

“You do, but that’s not the point. The point is . . . I’m not even sure what I want to do, but I know what I don’t want to do. I don’t want to keep running this coffee shop.”

My heart drops into my stomach. “Wait, are you closing the shop?”

“No,” Nick says quickly. “That’s not what I mean. There are things I like about it, sure, but running a business isn’t my idea of a good time. I would so much rather be somewhere behind the scenes, making food. Somewhere I could make a good salad and not have to worry about doing the taxes.”

I smile. “You do make a mean chicken tortilla soup.”

“Thank you. I’m not closing the shop. Don’t worry. I would never do that to you.”

“Gary would flip if he had to find a new coffee shop,” I say. “There’s no way he would fit in at Starbucks.”

“There aren’t a lot of places Gary fits in in this world.”

I sigh, then blurt out, “I wish you were here.”

Nick doesn’t say anything, and I realize I’ve overstepped. I was being honest, but maybe that was too confusing, so I quickly say, “I mean, in a completely platonic way.”

“I wish I were there, too,” Nick says at the same time.

I exhale. “I don’t even know what Antenna TV is playing at this time of night, but it’s probably something good.”

“Why don’t you check?”

I roll over and grab the remote from where it fell underneath my bed, then turn on the TV. It’s playing . . .

“It’s that knife infomercial,” I say in shock. “I guess they don’t play sitcoms at two A.M.”

“Maybe this is a sign,” Nick says. “Maybe this means you have a special connection with Mikey Danger.”

I snort. “The only thing Mikey Danger has a special connection with is his new knife. Oh, and I didn’t even tell you. He doesn’t like pie.”

“Pie in general?”

“That’s what I said!” I shout, vindicated.

“Chloe,” Nick says. “We should go to sleep.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” I know that Nick means we should go to sleep separately, in our own beds, in our own homes, but I pretend for a moment that he means we should sleep right next to each other, like we did that night in the hotel. We don’t even have to hook up; I want the nearness of him, his body heat, his smell. I want him to help me fall asleep, so I don’t have to sit here at 2 A.M. and think about the fact that I’m now in a fight with one of my very few friends.