I feel a rush of relief.

“That’s not to say we should ever do it again,” he quickly adds.

My heart sinks but I quickly nod and say, “Totally agree. We should just forget it happened and move on.”

He bites his lip, staring at me. “I should also point out that if the gender roles were reversed—”

I give him a quizzical look.

“I could never just get into the shower with a woman. Uninvited.”

“Oh,” I say, suddenly getting his point—and the inherent double standard I live by.

“That said…” He pauses, then gives me a small smile. “It was very hot.”

I smile back at him, my cheeks on fire.

“You looked incredible.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling light-headed.

“You’re welcome.”

I hold his gaze for as long as I can stand it, then look away before he does.

—

For a couple of hours, Tyson and I immerse ourselves in The Pigeon Girl. We read the entire screenplay, start to finish, then run through a few scenes, discussing my character’s arc and motivation as well as various themes in the film.

At one point, Tyson asks me what I think about the Pigeon Girl’s ultimate epiphany that being alone doesn’t mean she’s lonely.

“That resonates with me,” I say. “Most people assume that the key to happiness is through marriage and children. And so many seem to wind up miserable.”

He gives me a noncommittal nod. “I hear you. I don’t think there’s anything lonelier than being in a bad relationship—or even the wrong one.”

I nod and say I agree.

Tyson gives me a playful look. “Um. Don’t you have to be in a relationship to know if you’re in the wrong one?”

“Shut up.” I smile. “Although you know what’s weird?”

“What’s that?”

“Sometimes I can’t tell whether I’m always lonely or never lonely.”

He nods like he can relate, looking as unguarded as I’m starting to feel. A hundred questions run through my mind—things I want to know about Tyson. I wish I had paid more attention to his love life over the years.

“What was the name of the girl you dated in law school?” I ask, trying to remember.

“Kendra,” he says. “Why?”

I shrug and say, “No reason…She was gorgeous.”

“Yeah,” he says. “She was cool, too.”

“Why’d you break up?”

“I wasn’t ready for a relationship. It was…too soon.”

I start to ask a question, then decide I better not.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

I hesitate, then say in a gentle voice, “I was just wondering…and you don’t have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable…but do you think you would have ended up with Summer?”

He stares at me, his expression impossible to read.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep going there,” I say, wondering if it comes from the belief that Summer should be the one sitting with him now, not me. Mostly, though, I think I just want to understand Tyson better.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind when you ask thoughtful questions,” he says, then pauses. “But I don’t have an answer. I really don’t. I’d say it would have been a long shot—just given our age.”

I nod, murmuring that that makes sense, as I find myself wondering what it would be like if Tyson and I were together. Together together. It’s an absurd thought—untenable for so many reasons—and would pose an existential threat to our friendship. The chances of things working out with us would be nil, especially given that “working out” implies a permanent relationship, and I have no interest in that. With anyone.

I take a deep breath, then switch gears, suggesting we take a stroll around town.

“Sure. That sounds nice,” he says.

I smile, then get up, heading inside to change my clothes.

“Wait a second,” Tyson says with a laugh as he follows me over to the closet. “Is ‘a little stroll in town,’ a euphemism for ‘shopping’?”

I smile and shrug, quickly selecting a white romper that I “borrowed” from my television character’s wardrobe.

“Yep,” Tyson says. “I’ve just been played.”

I laugh. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re about to put on that expensive onesie from your show.”

I laugh, surprised that he was actually listening to the conversation I had with Hannah yesterday about the fact that I probably should have returned the outfit.

“It’s not a onesie,” I say. “Babies wear onesies. Onesies snap at the crotch.”

“Hey. Some girls wear tops that snap at the crotch. I’ve seen them.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you have,” I deadpan. “And those are bodysuits, buddy boy. Not onesies.”

“So what is that thing called?” he asks, pointing to it.