“Of getting what I wanted so badly and then losing it. Growing old. Becoming weird looking after one plastic surgery too many. Public humiliation. Becoming a cautionary tale. Getting canceled because I say something I don’t know is wrong. It makes me sad to hear that this version of me isn’t content, because it seems to me like she has everything.”

“Maybe she’s in your life like you’re in hers, and she’s loving it. Probably is.”

He takes a deep swig and I sit straight up.

“I had that same thought. How fucked up is that?”

The last log breaks in half, crisped nearly to charcoal with its webbing of red-hot fire within it. I already know he’s going to call it the end of the night.

“Can I walk you home?” he asks.

“Yeah, that would be great,” I say. “I suppose you want Maureen back.”

“I’ll be taking her back, yes. I wondered why you didn’t bring her today. She loves a good party.”

“Sorry about that,” I say. “Kiera did let her out tonight and took her for a walk in the rain. She’ll probably stink when we get back to her.”

“That’s all right.”

We clean everything up, he puts out the fire, and then he hands me a wad of cash.

“Oh, no,” I say. “I couldn’t.”

“Take it,” he says. “You need the money.”

“Right.” I take it, slowly. “Guess you’re right.”

“Plus, you earned it. Couldn’t have done tonight without you.”

“Thanks.”

I grab the sweatshirt from under the bar and pull it on, feeling deeply cozy in its soft fleece. Cillian turns everything off but that one light in the corner. I get the impression it’s always on, which comforts me. At the door, I find my body close to his as he holds it open for me to go ahead of him. He smells like a hint of the most intoxicating sweat I’ve ever smelled.

It’s stopped raining, but the temperature has dropped considerably.

“What do you want in life?” I ask, feeling rude for not having asked sooner.

“I’m pretty happy,” he says. “I love the pub. I like the hours; I’m a night owl. I like the folks around here. I want to travel more, but I haven’t. Not much, anyway—some with you when you travel for the store. But not enough. I tell you no too much, I think.”

I look at him. I’m not sure what to say, but I’m touched that he’s identified a problem in his own behavior. Guys so often don’t. People so often don’t.

I mean, one need look no further than both versions of me. And how many versions of me are out there? Is it infinite? Are all versions of me this restless?

God, I hope not. Like a whiny Everything Everywhere All at Once.