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Charlie was grateful for the darkness blanketing the world outside the airplane window.

That was the best he could say about the current situation: it was late at night, which meant he hadn’t been forced to watch the island grow smaller and smaller before finally disappearing, along with his dreams of happiness.

In a few hours, ocean would give way to solid ground.

They’d catch a connecting flight, cross a mountain range, and finally land in the vast flatness of the Plains.

Or at least, that was how it looked from above, a patchwork of big grassy squares and reddish dirt that plenty of people lumped in with the rest of the Midwest as one unbroken stretch of emptiness, dotted with the occasional barn.

It was easy to make those mistakes if you only glanced at the surface.

People saw what they expected to be there, making assumptions like “it’s all farmland” (when the nearest fields of corn and soybeans were hundreds of miles away) or “you’ll become a beer executive” (when he dreamed of studying snakes instead of sales).

Or how about “a beautiful girl could like you for yourself” (and not sell your whereabouts to the tabloids)?

The truth was a moving target.

He tried to picture home as a place he wanted to go.

Visualizing a safe space was one of the calming exercises he’d been taught as a kid, often using the creek behind his house as a focal point.

It felt sheltered there, shaded by canyon walls and cottonwoods, with a hush that reminded him of the inside of a library.

Charlie loved the landscape he’d grown up in—and yet he hated the fact that he was going back.

Defeated and humiliated, with his tail between his legs.

Hard to believe this was the same night he’d planned to spend with Jean, laughing and eating pie and…

Closing his eyes, he took a four-count breath in through his nostrils, holding it for three seconds before exhaling.

For now, he was in a state of suspended animation, neither here nor there.

Maybe he could pretend it wasn’t real, being in this tin can in the sky—a can that felt like a coffin.

Charlie’s scalp was sweating. He wanted to scratch it, but the hat was in the way, and he couldn’t lift his arms without elbowing Mugsy.

Don’t think all the dark thoughts at once. Pace yourself . That was another lesson he’d learned in therapy. Usually he had a hard time filtering, but today it was easy enough to pick one and stick to it.

Jean.

Had she gone to the cottage? What would she think when she realized he wasn’t there? He flashed back to the text claiming she was running late, with that uncharacteristic “sorry” at the end. Maybe Jean had never intended to show up, if she really did what Mugsy claimed.

I hope she misses me even a millionth of a percent as much as I miss her . It was a childish thought, followed by an even less rational one. I wonder what will happen to the pie? It would be a shame to throw it away untouched.

He shook his head. Maybe there really was something wrong with him.

Because even though Charlie knew he should be angry, all he felt was loss, like an announcement had just come over the PA system that the sun wasn’t coming up tomorrow.

For a few shining days, his world had seemed big and bright and exciting, as if Jean had opened the door to a magical dimension beyond the boring reality he’d always known and then held his hand as he took in the sights.

But that was wrong, wasn’t it? He needed to stop thinking of Jean as the best thing that had ever happened to him. Tomorrow, he decided. Or possibly the day after.

“I guess I’ll never see her again.” He was trying to sound brave, but the look on Mugsy’s face was a close cousin to her familiar you’re giving me heartburn expression. Charlie’s mother liked to say that Mugsy was the oldest young person in the world. “What?”

She shook her head.

“Go on, Mugs. I can take it.” At least, he wanted to be someone who could handle bad news. Or was it that he wanted other people to see him that way? Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

“I know it’s too soon to tell you it’s for the best, so I’m holding it inside.”

Before he could thank her for sparing his feelings, she kept going.

“But it really is better this way, Charlie. You need to go home and face your responsibilities. It was never going to last, even if she wasn’t… you know.”

Did he know? It still felt impossible he’d imagined the whole thing.

How Jean made him feel, the thrill of her company.

He would have sworn she was at least entertained, if not smitten like him.

Then again, he’d been told more than once he wasn’t good at judging other people’s intentions.

Mostly by Mugsy, who seemed to be taking this episode as confirmation of her worst fears.

“This way you can feel good about doing your duty.” She paused, apparently realizing it wasn’t the most enticing prospect. “And make your parents happy.”

That might have been an incentive, if Charlie believed it was within his power to please his father, short of becoming a different person.

“I wasn’t shirking. I just… thought they might be better off without me.

” And he didn’t want to leave Jean, but Charlie kept that part to himself.

It wasn’t making excuses when two facts existed independently of each other.

“Why would you say that?”

He wasn’t sure if Mugsy was objecting to the feeling or the fact that he’d admitted to it.

One of the tricks she’d tried unsuccessfully to teach him as a kid was how to hide his weak spots, but there was a difference between giving ammunition to bullies and being honest with your oldest friend. “You’ve seen me at parties.”

“Maybe you’ve grown out of it.”

“My personality?”

Mugsy gave a long-suffering sigh. “I don’t like people either, Charlie. But you can’t let them get under your skin. You shake hands, you nod, you smile.” She brushed her palms against each other. Piece of cake.

“Are you going to smile?”

She bared her teeth. It was an expression guaranteed to maintain a five-foot radius around Mugsy at all times. Maybe he could stand behind her.

“Your dad will do most of the talking.”

It would have been more reassuring if his father didn’t expect Charlie to stick close and laugh at all his jokes, pretending to have a great time. “It’s too bad I can’t buy a lifelike robot to take my place. It could hold up a sign that says, ‘ Good one, Dad! ’ every thirty seconds.”

Mugsy gave a grunt of agreement. “My robot’s sign would say, ‘ No, I’m not related to Pocahontas .’”

“I’m sorry, Mugsy. You have it much worse than I do.”

“Yes and no. At least I don’t get the backslapping.”

“It is hard to keep a drink down.”

She bumped her shoulder against his. “It’s not going to be a huge crowd.

Just a carefully selected group of beverage moguls who will hopefully decide to invest in your company.

And assorted others,” she added, like it was an afterthought.

Charlie assumed she was talking about caterers and cleaners and florists—typical event staff.

“It’s not my company.” He frowned. “That sounded ungrateful, didn’t it? I’m sorry.”

Her eyes softened with understanding. “I know it’s not what you want.”

“That makes one of you.”

“I’m not the only one who cares about you, Charlie.”

His breath hitched. “You think she did have feelings for me?”

“Your parents.” The words dropped like cement blocks. “Since that’s who we’re talking about right now. Not anyone else.”

Right. He knew that. Except thoughts of Jean were like a fidget spinner in his brain, so easy to keep turning and turning. “If they love me, why can’t they understand that I don’t want to run Pike’s?”

Mugsy held a finger to her lips, looking around to make sure he hadn’t blown their cover. “Are you having some kind of delayed adolescence?”

“I went through puberty, Mugsy. You remember my voice.”

“Everyone has an awkward phase.”

“And for some of us, it lasts our whole lives.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with you. There’s something different, and it’s not just the scruff.” She flicked her fingers at his chin.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Mugsy didn’t answer, probably hoping he’d drop it.

Charlie said the word to himself anyway. Love. With a capital L . At least on his side. “So she was just using me to get the story? You’re positive?”

“Talking about it isn’t going to help. You need to go cold turkey. Starting now. Flip the off switch.” She snapped her fingers, like it should be that easy.

That must be another mechanism that hadn’t been installed when they were making Charlie, because he had no idea how to turn off his feelings.

“If you have to think about her, focus on the part where she did you dirty.”

The blush hit hard and fast.

“Not like that. Yuck.” It was the same tone she’d used to scold him when he tried to turn the pages of a book while eating something sticky.

“What if she had a reason?” Charlie persisted.

“Like what?”

“Someone in her family needed emergency surgery and Jean had to get the money fast? It might have been a matter of life and death.” Although she could have just asked him. He would have given her anything.

Mugsy responded with a skeptical brow lift. She was difficult to impress under the best of circumstances, which this was not.

“It just felt like she knew me. The real me.” He needed Mugsy to understand that much at least. At first, he’d kept his identity under wraps because Jean was a stranger, and he didn’t want anyone to find out where he was.

And then he’d gone on not saying anything because it felt so good being plain old Charlie with her.

The parts of his history he didn’t mention were the parts he didn’t want to claim.

The public things: beer, business, being looked at, running away.

“Does she know your middle name?”