I touch a tea towel, crisp linen with an embroidered crescent moon and stars. It says Reaching for the Moon in dusty blue thread and a mid-century font.

“That seems like a dream job.”

“It is, trust me. Half the time I tow along with you. It’s all been delightful, but for the one nervous breakdown.”

“Nervous breakdown?” I ask, alarmed.

“A wee one.”

“Mine or yours?”

She points at me.

Should have known. “Why?”

“It was in Italy. We went to an old movie theater where they were showing La Dolce Vita, and afterward you had a right fit.”

“That’s—what was the fit about?”

She sighs. “It’s a bit hard to repeat now, considering everything you’re telling me about how you’re a movie star in your real life and all. But you were upset because you thought you’d given up. When I say upset, I mean you were yelling down the alleys of Rome. We were a little overspritzed, possibly. I think it was the heat that got to you. You were insisting that your life was too small, too … um. Provincial.”

“Provincial—”

“Like in Beauty and the Beast, that’s right.”

“I wasn’t singing though. Please lie to me and say I wasn’t singing.”

“No, no. Nothing as bad as all that. You thought you belonged somewhere else.”

I gnaw on my lip for a moment and then say, “Well, that’s embarrassing. I mean, it wasn’t me me, but still.”

“Nah, it’s not embarrassing. We’re friends! You’ve seen me tear through three party-sized bags of crisps in one sitting and I’ve seen you lament your existence in front of an audience of Roman tourists.”

“Eating a lot of junk food is hardly on the same level. Although that is a lot.”

“Well, you were also there for me when I tried to squat and pee on a long walk home from a party once but filled my shoes instead of the grass. And the time I accidentally called my boyfriend daddy, not in a hot way, that was a fun one. Or the time I was at my other ex-boyfriend’s mean parents’ house and tripped, only to spill hot Bolognese sauce all over a chair that cost more than I’ve ever earned. I could keep going.”

“And I could listen to it all day.” I laugh.

“Did I tell you about the one who kept his toenail—”

The bell sounds above the door and we both turn and see a tall figure come in, sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows, a bit of mud on his boots.

“Cillian,” says Kiera. She looks to me, and then he does too.