“Maybe that’s it. I’m selfish.”

He sighed. “Sawyer, you spent all your college summers building houses for Habitat for Humanity. You’re not selfish.”

Tossing the rest of the uneaten Twinkie aside, I jumped up and began pacing back and forth in front of the couch. “Am I too picky?”

“You should be picky. There’s a lot of assholes out there.”

“Maybe I’m a terrible fuck.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“But you can’t say for sure!”

“That’s true,” he said, laughing, “so maybe you should come home and let me take you for a test drive. Assess your steering and handling.”

That made me smile. “Very funny.”

For all his dirty jokes, Noah had never once tried anything with me. I used to wonder why, but eventually assumed I just wasn’t his type. He went for hot blondes with at least a C cup. Back then I was a brunette whose bra size matched her math grade: solid A. (Although these days, I am at least a B plus, possibly even a C minus.)

There was one time when I was in grad school and he’d come to see me in DC that I’d thought he was about to kiss me. He was in the Army back then, and about to ship out for his second deployment, so our goodbye had felt kind of intense. But the moment lasted for a fraction of a second, and afterward I was sure I’d imagined it.

“Listen, Sawyer. Forget that guy. He’s a jackass.”

“How do you know? You never even met him.”

“I don’t need to meet him. He had a chance to be with you and he blew it? Fuck him. He’s a jackass.”

“Thanks.” It made me feel a little better, even if it wasn’t true.

“You’re welcome. Can I watch the game now?”

“In a minute.” I flopped onto the couch and stared at the ceiling. “Do you think I’m destined to be alone because I keep prioritizing my work over my relationships?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

I frowned. “That’s not the right answer.”

“What’s the right answer?”

“The right answer is, ‘When you meet the one perfect love of your life, you’ll want to put that person first. You won’t even have to think about it. You just do it—like a gut instinct.”

“There you go.”

“But what if it never happens, Noah? What if the guy never shows up? Or,” I continued, getting more panicky by the second, “or, what if he does show up but I’m too busy and distracted to notice him? What if I’m . . . looking down at my fucking phone when he walks by?”

He exhaled heavily. “I think if you truly believe there is one perfect love of your life, your gut is gonna tell you to look up.”

I closed my eyes. “You really believe that?”

He hesitated. “At least part of it. I believe in trusting your gut.”

“But not one perfect love of your life?”

“That’s a fairy tale, Sawyer. But if it makes you happy to believe in it, knock yourself out.”

I sighed. That was a good question, actually. Did it make me happy to believe in that lightning-bolt kind of love, the once-in-a-lifetime kind that came out of nowhere and knocked you off your feet? Or was I just making an excuse for myself? Maybe I’d been expecting cupid to do all the work, when in reality love required more effort on my part. More lingerie and blowjobs.

I had no idea.

“You still there?” Noah asked.

“Yeah.” I sat up, swinging my feet to the floor. “Hey, don’t forget I’m coming home for Frannie’s wedding next week. Let’s hang out, grab a beer.”

“I’m around. And I’m always up for a beer.”

“How’s Thursday?”

“Good. I’m actually off this Thursday.”

“OK, I’ll call you when I get in. And thanks for listening to me tonight. Sorry I kind of monopolized the conversation.”

“I’ve known you a long time, Sawyer. I’m used to it.”

I grinned, realizing how much I missed him. “Asshole. Enjoy the game. See you next week.”

“Sounds good. Safe trip home.”

We hung up, and I set my phone aside, thinking that it was funny how I still thought of northern Michigan as home when I hadn’t lived there for fifteen years. I pictured it—Cloverleigh Farms, where I’d grown up; the small nearby town of Hadley Harbor, where Noah lived; the Leelenau peninsula—the pinky finger of Michigan—with its beautiful beaches and deep blue waters and gorgeous rolling hills covered with vineyards and orchards and woods. It had been such an idyllic place to grow up, and yet I’d been desperate to leave it, to get out in the world where important things happened. I couldn’t even think of the last time I’d visited for more than a day or so at Christmas or Easter. Maybe Noah’s dad’s funeral? That had been three years ago.

Guilt tightened my throat.

Work would always be there, but no one lived forever.

Suddenly I was feeling completely homesick, missing everyone I loved. The ticket I’d booked to go home for the wedding had me leaving DC on Thursday morning and returning Sunday, the day after the wedding. But now I wanted more than three days there.

Would taking a full week off anger my boss? Would I miss important meetings and the opportunity to weigh in on critical decisions? We were coming up on an election year, and—

Suddenly I heard Brooks’s voice in my head: You never put your relationships first. You don’t even put yourself first. It’s always your job.

He was right. And I could do better.

As for myself, maybe a little downtime was what I needed. A chance to escape the high-pressure hustle of the political world and just relax. Stop trying to do everything and just have fun. The world wasn’t going to implode if I took a vacation.

Jumping up from the couch, I grabbed my laptop from my shoulder bag, emailed my boss I’d be out of the office longer than originally planned but could work remotely if necessary, and changed my departure to tomorrow morning. I had to pay a hefty fee to the airline, but I didn’t care.

Happy with my decision, I went into the bedroom to start packing.

Three

Noah

I watched the rest of the game distracted by thoughts of Meg Sawyer. (It wasn’t really my fault. The hitting sucked, the pitching was even worse. And Renzo could’ve fielded better, for fuck’s sake.)

Plus, Meg had always been distracting to me.

Although we hadn’t gone to the same school—she’d gone to public schools while my parents had insisted on Catholic—I’d known who she was. Everybody pretty much knew everybody around here. But we weren’t close until the day I pulled her out of the bay at the public beach, barely conscious and white as a sheet, her body frighteningly limp in my arms as I set her on the sand.

Turning off the television, I took Renzo out to the yard one final time and looked up at the stars as I remembered the panic I’d experienced that day.

I was sixteen, barely old enough to be a lifeguard, but I was watching her closely as she tried to swim out to a friend’s boat anchored offshore. The current was strong that day, and she hadn’t been wearing a life jacket.