“We have, yes. He’s been showing me around—”

What a lame excuse. And it comes out just as lame as it sounds in my head.

“I’m happy,” she says. That’s all. No questions, no probing, no: ‘What are your intentions?’ She’s just happy. And she looks happy.

Seventy-Six

“Am I dressed properly for whatever it is that we’ll be doing?” I ask when Ethan and I are getting ready to leave. I have no idea where, but I can only assume it’s super close since I don’t see either the Mustang or the Porsche out front.

As I say the last word, I look at him and realize we’re both wearing the same kind of clothes and shoes—jeans, a T-shirt, Converse. My T-shirt is turquoise, his black, so at least we have that going for us. The last time we had matching clothes, it didn’t go so well. Or did it?

He gives me a funny look and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

We leave the house and walk for a bit before Ethan stops in front of the café. “He should be here any moment now,” he says.

“Who?”

“Our Lift driver,” he says and smiles innocently.

Wouldn’t this be the most ironic thing ever if this is Max? Life can’t be that cruel.

A black Ford pulls in front of us.

“Ethan?” asks the man when we open the back door.

Ethan nods and we get in the back seat.

OK. Clearly, they don’t know each other. So, no, it’s not him. Thank God!

“How come you’re not driving?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

“No drivers here in Carmel, eh?” asks the driver who tells us to call him ‘King’.

Ethan and I look at each other and after muffled snickering, we go with it. Why not? He looks a bit like Michael Jackson, and I think he’s a fan, based on the music he’s playing and the memorabilia all over his dashboard—a photo of MJ, a black glove.

“Not that many, no. Maybe a couple,” says Ethan.

I already knew that from Aaron, of all people. And none of them are Max, which Ethan confirmed. He could live anywhere in the Bay Area or anywhere in the world. People can be friends even if they live thousands of miles from each other. Just look at Alisa and me. Thinking about her makes me realize how much I miss her. I’ll call her tonight and be on my absolute best behavior, no matter what she says to me.

“I thought so since you waited thirty minutes for me to arrive from Monterey.”

Ethan smiles. “It’s worth it,” he says and looks my way for just a fraction of a second before fixing his sight on the road ahead.

Seventy-Seven

Ethan and I try to decide between H.P. Lovecraft and Shirley Jackson for the best horror stories—I fight for Shirley. We then move on to music, when King jumps into our conversation. ‘Is Roxette a European group?’ leads to a lengthy discussion about Swedish music that ends with a debate about whether David Guetta and Daft Punk are American. I lose that one; they’re not.