John considered. It should be the two of them against the Tom Meltons of the world. If only he’d told her about the option. If only she had trusted her heart would survive breaking the cage where she’d trapped it. The afternoon in the bar had been perfect, except for the ending, he guessed. Now they had to try to forge a path not in a hidden-away world of their own making, but the messy, complicated world where they’d both made mistakes. He remembered one late night in Rome when the two of them had stayed in the small production office past midnight, making prop wooden stakes and sharing a drink. Anna had talked about moving to San Francisco with her mom when she was eleven years old. The small details of her life that came alive in that conversation, moving apartments when they couldn’t make rent, washing dishes in restaurants to earn money, and sneaking into the movie theater for an escape hadn’t made John feel sorry for her. It made him want to know her better. Conversations, late-night talks, and early mornings when they wouldn’t leave the warmth of their shared bed—those were small things, individual moments that made up a whole. They could build a life on those, and he didn’t want anything else. He had to try.

“She is.”

“You better come up with a plan, son.”

John untied his apron.

“After you finish the dishes.”

John nodded in defeat, and his mother gave him a hug. He observed his parents as they talked about the menu for the next week and his mother complimented his father again on the meal. John had always thought it was such an ordinary thing, the way his parents actually talked to each other and liked each other after all this time. He wanted that, and he knew he had a chance to get it. He also had a question for his dad—one that he had put off asking.

“You really don’t mind,” John began, “that I wrote a movie about addiction?”

His father turned from the stove, looking at him with a level gaze.

“What happened all those years...” His father rubbed his forehead. “It’s your story as much as mine. You’re entitled to your own feelings about it.”

“You haven’t asked to read it.”

“It’s none of my business, I guess. If you want me to read it, I will, but you don’t need my blessing.”

“I might like it. This is a difficult subject, and I think you should read it the way I wrote it—not the way Tom Melton is going to bastardize it.”

“Then I will, son.”