“Okay,” he says slowly, and I can almost hear the wheels turning as he processes what I’ve just told him. “It still doesn’t make you your mother,” he finally says.

I look down at the dress I’m wearing and think of the black bra and underwear and have never felt more like my mother. “Do you think I’m a horrible person?”

He shakes his head, then reaches out and gives my knee a squeeze. “Of course not. We all do things in life we regret. Mistakes we wish we could take back” His eyes shift away, and for a split second I get the sense that a secret is sitting somewhere in there. “My philosophy is that if you learn from the mistake, then it’s not really a mistake anymore.” His eyes meet mine again. “And you learned from it, right?”

The hopefulness in his voice makes me cringe. “Oh, I learned from it all right. Self-sabotage and fear of commitment are just a couple of my issues.” Ezra pulls his hand away in mock disgust. And once again manages to make me laugh when I feel anything but happy on the inside.

“Well, then we’re good,” he says. “Forty-year-old virgin living with his mom and forty-year-old divorcée afraid of commitment living alone on an island. Wasn’t that how you described us?” I wince at the memory of my bluntness the first night we saw each other.

He gets up off the blanket and holds out his hand. “Come here.” I take it, and he pulls me up beside him and then leads me to the wall of windows. Outside the sun has started to set and the sky is tinted with thick bands of color—red, orange, and purple. We stand there in silence for a while, holding hands, staring out at the calm lake and kaleidoscope sky.

“You’ve experienced a lot of loss in your life, June.” His words catch me off guard, sending a lump of emotion up into my throat. “Maybe it’s time to cut yourself some slack and just be for a while. Stop taking inventory of your supposed failures and fuck-ups and just appreciate who you’ve grown to be from it all.”

“Ezra Keen, are you turning into a life coach on me?” It’s good advice he’s giving me, but instead of saying that, I go to my default and use sarcasm.

He bumps me with his hip. “Seriously, June!”

I bump him back. “Okay!” I yell, and it echoes through the massive space. “I’ll do my best.”

He gives my hand a squeeze. “Good.”

We take our time packing up the picnic, and I do one more twirl around the dance floor before we leave. It’s dark outside now, but the moon casts the whole deserted island in an eerie white light.