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“No,” he says. One simple word. Then, because he’s Paul, he gives me more. “PV is special. It always will be.” He looks down at the slice in his hand, then around the apartment. “But I think I needed to find normal.”

I get that. Puerto Vallarta let us become something because it was outside everything.

This place isn’t outside anything. It’s Paul eating in my bed with sauce at the corner of his mouth.

“And have you found it?” I ask.

He looks at me, then smiles.

“Finding a little more of it each day.”

Paul looks out the window. The sky has started to change.

“I need to get home soon,” he says.

Something in me tightens automatically.

Then he adds, “The dogs.”

Right. Not goodbye. Just dogs.

I let out a breath I don’t want him to know I was holding.

His eyes come back to me. “Want to walk me back?”

I take another bite of pizza to hide my smile.

“Fine,” I say. “But I’m bringing a slice.”

We walk through downtown with a slice of pizza folded in a paper plate, and Paul pretends not to find this charming.

He’s gotten bad at pretending.

The evening has softened everything. Storefront windows glow. A couple of bars have doors propped open, music spilling onto the sidewalk.

Two women pass us holding hands. They just walk past, fingers linked, one of them laughing at something on the other’s phone.

I look at Paul’s hand, then take it. His fingers close around mine automatically.

“So,” I say. “What kind of car do you drive now?”

Paul’s face does something suspicious. He sighs. “BMW convertible.”

I stop walking. He keeps going half a step, then our linked hands pull him back.

“A BMW? Really?”

“I couldn’t sell everything. I’m still a gay man of a certain age. We need our midlife crisis cars.”

“Not judging.”

“It gets excellent mileage.”

“Paul, I’m not judging.”

“Good, because I’m keeping it and that’s that.”

I shake my head and let him pull me along again, already dreading the sight of the next Beamer.