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“You drove three thousand miles to see him.”

I go back to the lasagna, slapping a layer of béchamel down with more force than the sauce deserves.

“It’s not a big deal, Nina.”

“Not a big deal? Foster, you crossed the country to see him. It’s a big deal. How long are you staying?”

“Until Thanksgiving. Then I’ll move to Bastian’s farmhouse.”

“Sooo, by my rough calculations, that’s two weeks, under the same roof. Just the two of you.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re telling me this is still a hookup arrangement.”

“That’s what it is.”

“Foster Michael Crue, if you drive across the entire United States of America to hide out in the apartment of a man you have been sleeping with for a decade, and you’re telling me you’re not in a relationship with him, I am going to reach through this phone and slap you.”

“We’re not.”

“Then what are you?”

“We’re—”

I open my mouth. Close it. Look at the lasagna I’m making for a man who was too tired to eat properly last night, so I made him toast and reheated pasta at eleven p.m. and let him fall asleep against my chest.

Nina waits.

“We don’t do relationships,” I say finally.

“Right.”

“We’re on the same page.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Bastian can never find out.”

“Oh really,” she deadpans.

“Yes.”

“You know Bastian is not going to kick your ass, right?”

“I don’t know that.”

“Bastian is your best friend.”

“Yes. And upon finding out I’ve been hooking up with his little brother for ten years, he’ll be so happy he’ll throw me a welcome-to-the-family party. Sure.”

She sighs.

“Have you been with other people in the last ten years?”

I don’t answer because she knows I haven’t. There were a couple of guys in the first year, but then being with other people felt wrong, for no other reason than I respect the fuck out of Finn.

“You’re in love with him.”