He takes a long, slow inhale while studying me closely, then asks, “Why?”

I take my chances and look out into the darkness, now wishing I could get sucked away into oblivion. I can feel his eyes on me and know there’s no way out of it. He’ll keep asking me that question until he gets an answer. That’s his way. He’s not one to give up.

“I guess because I feel like a failure.” My answer comes from some part of my brain that the weed has unlocked—the honest, vulnerable part. I would never have admitted that without some help. I’m not sure I’ve admitted that even to myself.

“A failure?” Ezra’s voice sounds too loud all of a sudden. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What?” I was expecting a bit of sympathy, but he actually looks angry.

“You write a book in your twenties that’s a huge success, you were called the voice of a generation, and you call yourself a failure?”

“Key words, Ezra. A book, and in my twenties. I haven’t written another one since.”

He swipes his hand through the air. “So that’s it, then. Not writing another book cancels out the accomplishment of the first book?”

“Well, not exactly, but I mean, that success was in my twenties, and I’m forty now.”

He throws the joint on the ground and stamps it out with his foot. “You don’t think people are reading that book now? You don’t think it’s still having a profound effect on people?” I shrug, and he sighs loudly. “My god, June, what is wrong with you? Most people don’t write even one book in their life, and if they do, it sits in a drawer and never sees the light of day. You should celebrate that one accomplishment for the rest of your life. As far as I’m concerned, you are failure-immune because of that book. You literally don’t have to do another thing in your life.”

He’s even more handsome when trying to make a point—his cheeks flushed, his brows furrowed, his eyes intense lasers. I have this sudden flash of when we were kids and he was trying to persuade me that UFOs existed. He ended up convincing me—he always did—and we spent that summer looking for clues of alien existence.

“June. Are you listening to me?” He snaps me back to the present.

“Yes, Ezra. I’m listening. I get it. I’m failure-immune.”

He frowns deeply. “You don’t get it, do you?”