I can’t help but notice that she, unscarred by grief and massive loss, has also managed to forge new relationships better than I have. I don’t even have any to take for granted, so informed by that one big loss that I’d rather have nothing than risk having something and losing it.

“What do you think of your life here, then?” asks Cillian, tossing another log on the fire; maybe he’s not ready for the night to end either.

“Um…”

“Ah, you hate it.”

“No, I don’t!” I say, meaning it. “The opposite. It’s that it’s a little hard to admit, because I keep hearing about how the Meg you all know seems to resent all this and it sounds like that version of me wishes she had my life. So it feels like it’d be a little rich coming from this version of me to envy this life.” I make a face about how confusing it all is. “It makes me feel like my soul is destined to stay on an endless, ridiculous cycle of thinking the grass is always greener.”

“But what do you think of it?”

I take a sip of my beer. “Well … I love it here. I wish I could see it covered in snow. I feel like I’d rather experience a million blustery days here than a million sunny days in LA. And that’s coming from me, who hates the cold.”

He nods and doesn’t say I know, but I understand that he does.

I go on. “I think it seems nice to know the people in town. I think the job at the shop sounds like fun. Earlier, upstairs, I had this image of us sitting up there together eating carryout and…” I trail off, feeling suddenly shy. “Seemed nice.”

“We’ve done that a lot,” he says. “And you’re right. It is nice.”

He gives me a kind little smile and I return it, feeling a flutter in my chest.

“I think the whole thing sounds”—I look for the word that really means what I want it to, and land on—“enchanting. Even the part where I never do anything more … I don’t know … important. Like living could be enough.”

My cheeks get hot.

“Are you not happy in your other life then?” he asks. “Being a celebrity?”

I can see that he’s still, understandably, struggling with the fact that it’s what I truly believe. It’s like dealing with someone with dementia, where you kind of have to play into the reality they live in. Or a kid who insists their imaginary friend exists and is named Paul. You say, Okay, sweetie, does Paul think you should have your entire fist in your mouth while you walk down the staircase?

In fact, for Cillian and Kiera, it’s probably exactly like that.