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I glance inside. It won’t be any safer in there, but it somehow feels more inviting than the pits right now. “Are you okay?”

“Come on.”

As we head inside, I can’t help but notice she doesn’t answer my question.

There are a few more people inside. Fewer than five. But when each person feels like an extra boot pushing down on your chest, it seems like fewer than five is still a hell of a lot of other humans. My phone is in my purse, which bounces against my hip, but I swear it burns through the thick material of my bag as Maeve and I stop in front of a model of a dire wolf (taxidermied? No? Not everything here has been frozen in ice, right?). Hipster Guy must have had the whole encounter planned out. I have no idea how someone could know I would be at the La Brea Tar Pits, but maybe he just has a general deal with a tabloid for whatever photos he gets. We’re close enough to a celebrity hub for that not to be too outrageous of a theory. My stomach twists. I must’ve made his fucking day.

I squeeze my eyes shut as Maeve focuses hard on the wolf. Stress is mounting, and I feel bad right now. God knows how quickly my IBS could kick into gear, and we still have to eat at some point. I can’t pass off having just broth as part of a required diet for a role, and, besides, Gwyn always says liquid diets are a terrible thing to do anyway. I need to calm the fuck down. That guy doesn’t have a photo of Maeve.

But it was such a close one. We really shouldn’t be hanging around here much longer.

“Have you thought about what movies we want to switch out next semester?” I ask.

She smiles. “I’ve yet to see your Cats lecture, so let’s see.”

“I have Dear Evan Hansen waiting in the wings.”

“Don’t remind me that movie exists.”

We’re not holding hands anymore. I dig mine into my jacket pockets. Finger a piece of lint I find inside. Take as inconspicuous of a deep breath as I can and focus on a model of a saber-toothed tiger. In my pockets, I tap my thumb against my fingertips. Count each tap.

“Val?” Maeve says. She sounds miles away.

She touches my shoulder. It breaks the film over me, at least.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m just— Do you wanna move the date somewhere else?”

Maeve goes still, but I can see the relief flash through her brown eyes. “I don’t want to cut this short because of him, though. Maybe we do a quick look-through?”

“Okay.”

We pass swiftly through the other exhibits, through prehistoric animal dioramas where I seem to genuinely impress Maeve with my obsessive elementary school–level knowledge. We then make our way through the gift shop, where I buy her a plushie of her favorite prehistoric animal so she has a fond memento from the date itself. But even though I’ve managed to turn our time in the museum around, into something positive, pressure releases from my organs the second I step out of the building. I take a deep breath once I’m back at the wheel and the car doors have shut Maeve and me away from the outside world.

“Better?” I ask.

“Yeah. That was so bizarre. Does that happen to you often?” Maeve glances out the window.

“Depends on the week.”

Luckily, she purses her lips and changes the subject. “Is there an Urth on the way back to your place?”

She just invited herself back to my house. People only do that when the date, despite a paparazzi face-off, goes well. A twinkle of light flickers inside me.

“Yeah, there is,” I say.

She smiles like this was what she wanted all along as well. “Good. I wanted you all to myself.”

Mile by mile, the tension I’ve been feeling slips away. Slips away as Maeve digs for every opinion I have as to which items at Urth are the best and tosses out every option before we order over the phone. Slips away when Maeve’s eyes light up at the little piece of foam art on her to-go chai latte. By the time Charlie texts to say he’s gonna be away for the evening on a networking happy hour, I feel almost as good as I did during that kiss at the tar pits.

“Do you want to check?” Maeve asks as we set up our food in my backyard. The sky’s as clear as it gets in LA, and it reminds me of the first morning Maeve spent here. I hope she’ll get that look of awe again.

“Check what?” I ask as I drop into a seat.

Eustace jumps into one of the other three chairs. He’s shaking, and I mentally try to locate where the sweaters I bought him are.

“The photo. I wanna see what you did.”

The thought of finding the photo makes my chest tighten again, but I need to just rip off the bandage. “Are you worried?”