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I give her a look as I take a sip from my cup, relishing in the flavor with satisfied moan. “Thank God. I think there’s a demon in that church out to steal the tastebuds of Ledger.”

“And Ford?” she asks, opening the back of her van so we can sit on the bumper.

I take another sip of my coffee.The only man that I’ve ever loved who won’t stop saying all the right things and I can’t stop fantasizing about when I’m using my B-squad vibrator?Not going there.“Complicated.”

“Okay,” she drawls, blowing out a sharp sigh. “The house coming along? Your moving plans?”

The house that I’m renovating to sell but am actually starting to like?Not touching that one either. “Hm,” I say with another sip.

“No,” she snaps. “You don’t gettohmme.”

My head whips to face her. Her typical creamy skin is red and her usually kind eyes are wide and filled with seven different shades of pissed off.

“What isthatsupposed to mean?”

She guffawswith a somewhat maniacal tilt of her head“What isthatsupposed to mean?” she shouts. “Youhmwhen you’re fortifying your walls. Youhmwhen something is uncomfortable. Youhmwhen you’re deciding to move to the damn desert without rhyme or reason. You don’t get tohmme when we’re talking about Ford or your new house that you haven’t let me see yet. Don’t you dare fuckinghmme, Scotty Armstrong.”

She blows out an angry breath, glaring at me and clutching the cup of coffee in her hands like she’s trying to crush it. In the entirety of our years of friendship, she’s never once yelled at me like this.

“Fine,” I say, looking at her like the psycho she’s being. “Ford asked me out. Again.”

Her eyes widen. “And?”

“And I said yes.” Her eyes widen even further. Before I chicken out, I add, “And Wren’s been cutting herself and I haven’t told him.”

She chokes on her coffee; I tell her everything. And like the wonderful friend I know I don’t deserve, she walks me through solutions—complete with a lineup of podcasts I can listen to should I need more information—and helps me formulate a plan.

“She’s lucky to have you,” she says as we hug goodbye and she props her chin on my shoulder. “Why do you want to sell thehouse? You could just live there, Scott. Spend your life looking at the lake like we dreamed of when we were kids.”

“What am I going to do with a house, Joo? I have no family. You’re my only friend. And this town . . .”

“First”—she pulls back from me—“I come with Camp and three kids, so that’s five friends.” She grins when I roll my eyes. “And second, even though I don’t agree with you, who cares if that’s true?This townloves you.This towndoesn’t care about any of the stuff you’re talking about. That’s all you.”

My eyes narrow.

“I’m serious. Rich single men live in mansions all the time. You in an A-frame with two bedrooms—which I can’t confirm because you haven’t let me see it—isn’t so far-fetched.”

I hate how right she is. Hate that some nights I lie in bed and think about what it would be like if I didn’t sell it. If Mel and Wanda are right, and all I have to do is start doing what I want right now, maybe I could stay. Choose this house. Hell, maybe even choose Ford and Wren if they’d choose me.

She squeezes my cheeks with her palms. “And you hate the desert.”

I frown, face smooshed between her hands. “Says who?”

“You.” She drops her hands from my face and takes a step back. “When you went to Vegas for some cremation conference and a sixteen-hour marriage ten years ago.” We exchange a look. I went to learn about new cremation technology but ended up drinking too much tequila and marrying a Swede named Sven by a preacher dressed as Elvis. “I asked how the desert was, and you said,‘Thatplace is worse than a sand-filled pile of petrified shit. All people do out there is cry about water and slather on lotion. My nose bled more in two days than my uterus during a week-long red tide.’”

Her impression is good; it sounds like something I’d say.

“I’ve turned over a new leaf and it’s a cactus needle,” I say in a dismissive tone.

She rolls her eyes, opening the door to her minivan.

“I don’t know, Joo . . . who has a whole house without pictures to hang on the wall?” I challenge. “Seems like a waste.”

“Well,” she says as she slips into the driver’s seat. “Turns out, youronlyfriend is a photographer.”

She smiles up at me before driving away.

My whole route home—by the trailer park, the forgotten cross, and the two-story house with no cars in the driveway today—I can’t shake the feeling that my best friend might have a point.