Another time it was his mother, cutting the crusts off of his peanut butter sandwiches at the kitchen counter, her back to him, her hair perfect. But when she turned around there was a giant hole in her dress where her heart should have been, and her eyes were flat and empty.

In a panic he tangled himself in the sheets; he thrashed and kicked, trying to get out.

“What?” said Joy. “You okay, baby?”

Nobody had ever called him baby before, except maybe when he was an actual baby, and if that had happened he didn’t remember it. He sank back into the pillows, sweaty and relieved. He rummaged around under the sheets until he found her hand, and when he had it he didn’t let go.

He had to tell her. But if he told her and he lost her, he’d die.

He couldn’t tell her.

His mother called him every three days. More often than not he was too busy to answer her.

Ready for a visitor? she texted.

Not a good time, he replied.

We still have to talk, came her answer.

Once he and Joy walked by Island Bound Books after returning a moped they had rented to ride out to Charleston Beach for a picnic. Anthony couldn’t help but steal a glance at the window. Was The Thrill of the Chase still there? Front and center. Not only that, there was a poster now in the window, with his father’s photo and big red letters proclaiming AUTHOR EVENT! AUGUST 7. The photo was a three-quarter shot. Leonard had his arms crossed over his chest and an extremely satisfied smile on his face.

Oh, brother, thought Anthony. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Now would be a good time to tell Joy, he thought. You have a natural entry point. He gave it a feeble try. “You ever read that book?” he asked, tilting his head toward it. He thought he might do it. He might say, That’s my father. He might say, I’m that guy’s son. He could say, There’s more to the story.

“Which?” Joy was distracted: Olivia Rossi had texted about a message Bridezilla’s mother had left at the shop.

“That one. In the window. The Thrill of the Chase.”

“Oh, that?” She glanced up at the poster quickly, then back at her phone. She muttered something about a dairy in Vermont. “Not my kind of book, mysteries.” Really, most books weren’t Joy’s kind of book. She wasn’t a reader, just as she’d said! It was actually very refreshing. In the evenings when they were home together she went over accounts from the shop or suggested that they watch something on cable or Netflix or Hulu. Ray Donovan was supposed to be good, or how about The Handmaid’s Tale?

“Thrillers,” he corrected her, about Leonard’s genre. “I believe they call those thrillers.”

But she was already talking into the phone, turning away from him.

“I love you,” he said experimentally one night, when Joy was putting together a simple caprese salad with grilled tuna. She looked so startled that he quickly revised: “I mean, I think I’m falling in love with you.” And a second revision: “I think I might be.”