We eventually make our way back to Hollywood Boulevard, and like my ears are trained to pick up on this one particular sound above all others—above the laughter and traffic and explosions of superheroes reenacting some Marvel scene down the street—I hear a voice.

Dominic’s voice.

“And here we have the TCL Chinese Theatre. Its founder, Sid Grauman, started the Forecourt of the Stars, a collection of celebrity hand and footprints not to be confused with the stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. When he accidentally stepped in wet cement in front of his theater, he realized celebrities could do the same and have their literal spot in history forever.”

I’ve heard him say those words so many times I could recite them at any random moment. Dominic’s dad would let me ride up top to listen to D give tours while I used the Hollywood backdrop as inspiration for my next film assignment. A few weeks ago, I was filming Dominic himself and the reactions of his customers for my Tourists submission to the film showcase. More often than not, my eyes would drift from my phone and I’d just stare at D with this goofy grin on my face. Dominic would smile back, somehow interacting with the tourists onboard while still making me feel like it was only the two of us up top.

I’ve stopped walking, my body tense. I’ve clenched up so much that my hand is squeezing Ross’s like a vise, pulling them into me. And somehow, whether it’s by some magic in the universe or total accident, it’s like I’ve pulled Dominic to me too. Because right at that moment he looks to the street, directly at me, and if I could do a close-up of his eyes, I swear I’d see his face drop into a frown. I’m fairly certain he’s stopped talking too, his Walk of Fame facts cutting off abruptly when he sees me and Ross pressed together. I’ve heard his speech so many times, I’m pretty sure I know exactly where he’s stumbled too.

“The first person to get a star was actress Joanne Woodward, an Academy Award winner for . . .”

I think everyone on the bus roof is following his stare, a couple dozen people randomly taking pictures to make sure they don’t miss some big celebrity sighting when it’s really just three random people, two of whom are clinging to each other, easily overlooked on the crowded sidewalk. Easily for everyone except Dominic.

For a second I feel guilty that this is blowing his rhythm at work, ruining his script that he’s so good at he sometimes says it in his sleep. It’s one of the cutest things about him when he dozes on my couch and starts mumbling, “Over twenty-seven hundred stars . . .”