“I’ve been reading more of your manuscript,” says Ethan, unrelated to anything we’ve been talking about since we left Carmel. That was about an hour and a half ago, and I still have no idea where we’re going, only that we’re following familiar road signs to Napa.

“You have?” I ask.

He nods. That’s all. Is he waiting for me to ask what he thinks?

“It’s not going to be long now before I finish it,” he says.

“Good.”

That ‘good’ sounded so hollow, it almost echoed in the car. Is it good? He finishes, we’re done. This, whatever it is, is over. It has to be over; I know it. I’ve known it from the moment we made the pact. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? I knew it even before that. From the moment I saw him standing in front of Celine’s front door—his door—and understood who he was. Ethan Delphy, bestselling author who is going on a book tour on June 17 and then on a movie production set for an unknown number of months, on the other side of the world. Ethan Delphy, friend of Max. Ethan Delphy, the biggest surprise of my existence. I knew it, but it doesn’t make this looming deadline any easier. All the denying and ignoring won’t make it disappear and turn into something it cannot be. He will still leave, I will still stay, and Max is still Max.

“Good,” he echoes.

I know we’re in Napa Valley. I recognize this much. But I still don’t know what he has planned, although judging by our escapades so far, it’ll be something I’ve never done before. There are so many things, though, so it’s hard to narrow it down.

“Plane, car, bike, motorcycle, walking, train?” he asks.

“Say what?”

“Which one is your favorite?”

“Plane is last. I love walking. I recently—you know this already because you wrote my story—rediscovered biking. Motorcycle, no thanks, car… sure, that’s always OK. Train, it’s been years since I’ve been on one. Maybe since I was a kid. But I remember I found it fascinating.

“I probably should’ve asked this before,” he says and smiles.

As the car comes to a stop, I know what he means.

Not far from where we are, there’s a railroad, and a train unlike any I’ve seen in New York or Connecticut is waiting in an adorable, miniature station.

“Don’t tell me we’re going on a train ride,” I say, not hiding my excitement.

“Hope that’s OK,” he says.

“More than OK,” I say and as soon as we get out of the car, I grab his arm and basically drag him to the train.

It’s old, luxurious and for some reason it makes me think of the Orient Express.

“Welcome to the Napa Valley Wine Train,” says a woman dressed in a red and white outfit, like she’s a character in a book or a play. One of those European folk dancers I used to see on TV when Eurovision was on.