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Kristine sighs on the other end of the line. “Is this for-real for-real this time?”

“Yes,” I say as quickly as I can make the word come out of my mouth. “I need to tell him I love him. That I’m in love with him.” I feel a rush at how easily those words came. Reagan may not like much of what I’m doing right now, but at least that counts as progress.

“I’ll text you the address. But you didn’t get it from me, okay?”

“Yes, of course, absolutely. Thank you, Kristine.”

“Be gentle with him, sweetie.”

After we hang up, Kristine’s text pings across my screen. Henry is in Los Angeles.

Things really must be dire if he’s willingly ventured to his least favorite city in the world. Which means I have a lot of making up to do.

When I get back to my neighborhood, I grab a few things at the bodega. My mind is already whirring. It’s good he wasn’t here, that I couldn’t just go see him in my running clothes with no plan and a bag of greasy latkes. The word I hid behind, the word I no longer need. After all this time, he deserves a grand gesture, something to show him that I love him. That I mean it.

I book a nonstop flight I can’t afford for this afternoon, and an Airbnb just in case. I throw a bunch of nonsense into my suitcase, killing time by preparing one step of my plan with glitter glue I pray dries before I roll up the paper and shove it into my bag, and then I head for JFK.

Chapter 30

I get into LAX just after three p.m., thankful for the time difference that allows my day to grow three hours longer. I take a Lyft to my Airbnb in Santa Monica, trying to get oriented. I freshen up, drop off my bag, and call another Lyft to the address in Hollywood that Kristine sent me. I’ve never been to Los Angeles before, and I guess I didn’t understand how sprawling the city is. By the time I arrive at the building, it’s almost six. I thank the driver and survey the area as the car pulls away.

The street is lined with tall palm trees. I can see a hint of the Hollywood sign from my vantage point on the sidewalk. Kristine mentioned that Henry was staying with a friend, Nick, who I think was his old roommate here in LA. I wonder if this is Henry’s old apartment. The building I’m about to infiltrate is not a place I would have expected him to ever live. It looks straight out of the 1960s, painted a bizarre salmon color, with a kitschy sign that reads Guava Towers over the garage. It feels like someplace designed for Vegas, or Boca maybe, as opposed to what I thought Los Angeles was supposed to look like. The building is three stories tall, with balconies facing the street. I see a surfboard on one, a Pride flag on another. A couple sitting at a table drinking wine.

I approach the wide glass doors and see a buzzer. I start to scroll through to the apartment number I was given, 301, when I notice that the door isn’t closed all the way. Probably not the best safety feature, but I pull it gently and slip inside. I walk through the open-air patio, looking up at the sky, until I reach the elevator. I press 3 and ride up, the elevator making sounds so severe that I remind myself to take the stairs down when I leave.

I circle around, fascinated by this donut-shaped building and the feeling of the Los Angeles air (smog?) on my face as I locate the apartment. Please be home, I think, because the idea of turning right around and traveling back to Santa Monica without even seeing him feels like it might kill me.

I land in front of the door marked 301, stepping onto a doormat blazed with the interlocking S and D that I recognize as the San Diego Padres logo.

I knock and hold my breath. After a few moments, the door opens, and a guy about my age with honey-colored hair and a well-groomed beard stands before me. I see a full-sleeve tattoo of grayscale flowers creeping up his muscular biceps, under the edge of his white T-shirt. He looks at me for a moment, and his dark eyes narrow.

“Hi, I’m—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“I know who you are.”

He folds his arms across his chest and makes no move to welcome me inside.

“And you’re Nick?”

He nods.

“If you know who I am, then you probably know why I’m here.”

Another nod.

“Is Henry around?”

Another.

“Can I see him?”

“I don’t think you can.”

Nick is giving me absolutely nothing to work with. I briefly consider pushing past him, the idea that Henry is on the other side of the door too overwhelming to stay away when I’ve come so far already today. But this man could definitely tackle me to the ground if he wanted. He could just put his tattooed arm out and block my entry. So I try another approach.

“I came all this way. From New York. And this place is really far from LAX. I had no idea.”

That gets a soft chuckle. “Pro-tip: LAX is for suckers. Next time try the Burbank airport.”