“You’d be doing him a favor, I think,” Robert says. He grabs Ethan’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“My boyfriend moved out last week.” Ethan sighs. “Ex-boyfriend. It’s possible that I’m not so great at living alone.”

Robert laughs. “That’s an understatement. This man is lonely.”

“Hey,” Ethan says. “I bring ice cream.”

“And stay on my couch watching sad movies all night.”

“See, April,” Ethan says, “you’d be doing Robert a really big favor.”

My head aches like someone is tightening a band across my temples. It’s more than ten hours back to Anna Maria Island. I can’t spare motel money on the way. It’s not a route I know well enough to have notes on campgrounds and truck stops recorded in my notebook. And I’m lonely too.

“I can’t pay room and board right now,” I say.

“I don’t need a roommate,” Ethan tells me. His eyes have pinwheels of grey mixed in the blue. “I need the house to feel less empty.”

“I do take up space,” I say, and the tightness in my shoulders starts to give a little. Just for tonight. It’s only bending the rules, not breaking them. I will leave in the morning, before Ethan wakes up, with a full night’s sleep and maybe some aspirin.

“Do you cook?” Ethan asks, like I’ve agreed to a long-term arrangement.

“No.”

“Neither do I. Ivan was an excellent cook.”

Robert clears his throat.

“Not as good as you,” Ethan says, “but you never cook for me.”

“What do you call this?”

“I mean at home.” Ethan pats my arm. “Robert lives next door.”

“If I stay, you better come over and cook for us,” I say. It’s a reflex. Pretend we’re already good friends, in the middle of things. It’s the way I get what I need.

“He will,” Ethan says, beaming, and I decide I may as well play through.

— Chapter 43 —

Ethan’s house is small and old and adorable. The floors are slightly crooked—just enough to throw me off balance, like it could be me, not the house, that’s askew. Every window has a glass ball, wind chime, or dreamcatcher hanging in it. The curtains are yellow linen and the air smells like sandalwood and aftershave.

“It’s all yours,” Ethan says, opening the door to a tiny room with a white metal daybed and a patchwork quilt. There are paint stains on the floor and a big roll of white canvas in the corner. “Sorry it’s not cleaned up. It was Ivan’s studio. Mine’s on the sun porch.”

“Better than my car.”

“You really sleep in your car?” He looks like he’s worried for me. Touches his hand to his mouth and sighs.

“Sometimes,” I say.

“Our little bag lady has a bed.”