“I texted you,” Dalma says.

I check my phone, and she did indeed throw a heads-up my way, but I haven’t taken my phone out of my pocket since we’ve been on the subway or when we were walking over so I wouldn’t get robbed. “My bad.”

Dalma hands Valentino the roses. “I’m sorry for being so insensitive last night.”

“Your heart was in the right place,” Valentino says.

“But I went about it wrong. I hope you can forgive me.”

Valentino hugs Dalma, and I kind of want to collapse on the couch and cry.

Little Dahlia—I mean, she’s thirteen, but she’s always going to be Little Dahlia to me even if she’s about to be Big Dahlia compared to her father—gives me a hug, and I introduce her to Valentino.

“I’m sorry that you . . . that you’re going to . . . you know . . .” Dahlia shakes her head. “Thanks for helping Orion.”

“He’s the one who’s been helping me,” Valentino says.

“He better help you, you’re giving him a heart!” Dahlia says with the air of Duh! in her voice. She turns to her parents. “Can we give him his presents?”

“Presents?” Valentino asks, following Dahlia to the table.

Dalma stops me. “Hey, I hope this is okay. We thought it would be nice to thank him for everything and show him some family love.”

“It’s perfect,” I say. “Or as perfect as an End Day can be with strangers.”

“It seems like you’re more than strangers.”

Unfortunately-slash-fortunately we are.

However this End Day is destined to close out, it’s going to hurt far more than I can possibly imagine.

Valentino

3:58 p.m.

The Youngs are treating me like I’m family.

I’m sitting at the head of their dining table with my roses in my lap. In no world would my parents ever give me flowers, not even on Valentine’s Day. I can’t help but feel like this is my very literal Last Supper without the meal or betrayal. Instead, Dalma comes out of the kitchen with a gift bag. She says it’s not much, but I’m already feeling blessed. I toss the tissue paper at Orion and pull out a snow globe of New York City, a taxicab fridge magnet, a pizza key chain, and a small brown bag of dried linguini noodles.

“I will personally cook those for you if you want them,” Dalma says.

This feels like the ultimate peace offering. “Tempting, but I’m going to pass.”

There’s a sad relief in Dalma’s eyes. “If you change your mind . . .”

“I’ll take you up on that.” I shake the snow globe, the white powder showering the miniature Statue of Liberty and silver buildings. “Thank you all so much. This was really sweet of you.”

“We wanted to welcome you to the city,” Dalma says.