My breath catches in my throat. “What?” I ask in a gurgle.

“What do you want to do with the rest of your life?” My heart rate starts to return to a normal speed. “After you get your degree.”

I bite my lower lip. “Promise you won’t laugh. Or at least laugh silently so I won’t see it in the dark.”

“I’m not going to laugh at you.”

“Okay. Well.” I inhale and exhale. “What I really want is . . . my own bakery.”

I let the words hang there for a moment. It’s the first time I’ve ever said this out loud, and I thought it would feel weird to admit it, but it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the darkness or maybe it’s Nick, but it feels good to say the words.

“I want my own bakery,” I repeat with conviction. “A place where the desserts are classic but unconventional. Someplace where people can sit down with coffee and a scone and talk to their friends, or have a piece of pie while working on their laptop. Somewhere with tons of plants, and bright artwork, and flowers and butterflies everywhere. It’s warm and it’s comfortable and none of the chairs or cups match because I found them all at antique stores. And the music is fun and upbeat, not that sad, quiet coffee shop music you like.”

Nick doesn’t say anything, so I keep going. “I know it’s ridiculous. I know, like, ninety percent of businesses fail and it’s not like Columbus needs another bakery and I don’t even have a bachelor’s degree yet, let alone the kind of education I need to become a business owner, but—”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Nick says. “Chloe. It’s not.”

I’m so relieved to hear him say that, I almost can’t swallow or breathe. “Yeah?” I ask.

“This is everything you’re good at. Like I said, I couldn’t run the shop without you. You’re good at everything I hate. Decorating. Coming up with new ideas. Being friendly to the customers. Picking out music that doesn’t make people want to cry.”

“Thank you for admitting that last one,” I whisper.

“And all the business stuff—finances, bookkeeping, making sure we actually make money. That stuff’s such a pain in the ass for me, but you’re good at it.”

I exhale slowly. “I am pretty great, aren’t I?”

“What’s the name of the bakery?”

I snort. “I haven’t named my hypothetical bakery.”

“Come on,” Nick says in a low voice. “I didn’t just meet you. You named your succulents. You definitely named your not-yet-existent bakery.”

“Fine, but—”

“For the last time, I’m not going to laugh.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Okay. It’s . . . the Butterfly.”

Nick doesn’t say anything.

“Do you think it’s bad?” I ask quietly. “Is it too cheesy? Or girly?”

“No.” I can hear the crinkle of Nick’s smile. “It’s perfectly you.”

I frown. “What does that mean? Because ‘perfectly you’ can mean ‘perfectly terrible.’’’

“It means it’s perfect.”