Still partially wrapped in my Dora the Explorer towel, I make my way back to the pool house, where my fully packed suitcase sits on my bed alongside the dead-parents box. I plop down in my armchair and scroll through my messages—thankful that Drew deleted every single social media app before I could get my hands on this thing.

I want to call someone. Sierra. Beck. Anna. Drew. Even Sara Claire or Stacy. Just someone so that the burden of this decision isn’t entirely my own. I need some sort of nudge so that whatever decision I make, and whatever the outcome, I’ll be able to look back, and in some far corner of my mind, not take full responsibility.

I know that if what Henry and I share is real, then we are bigger than some silly television show, but I also know that ditching him on live TV to jump across the country for a job interview sends a very clear message.

All he needed to say was I choose you. You win. We’ll still play their little game, but you win. In some quiet, stolen moment. Just a whisper would’ve sufficed.

But no matter how many times I dreamed that he would, Henry never said that. He never chose me. After putting my life on hold since graduation, I don’t think I can put it off any longer if all that’s waiting for me is a maybe.

I sit in the backyard by the pool with my suitcase beside me. Inside, Jana is helping Mary with her bath while the boys unwind with some reading time. My phone lights up, alerting me that Georgie, my Lyft driver, is here. No going back now. At least not without jeopardizing my passenger rating.

I sneak away through the kitchen, holding my breath as the sliding glass door squeaks shut.

After snagging a green juice, I make my escape for the front door, and just as I’m about to step outside, a small voice says, “Cindy?”

I turn around to see my sweet Gus in one of my old T-shirts from high school that I’d made for spirit week that says GO TEAM in black permanent marker.

“Hey, Gus-Gus,” I whisper. “What are you doing out of bed?”

He sighs. “I wanted some water. What I really wanted was some ginger ale, but Ms. Jana said water.”

I leave my bag in the partially open doorway and rush over to the kitchen. After taking a fresh cup from the dishwasher, I pour a splash of ginger ale in. “Shhh,” I tell him. “Our secret.”

He drinks it all in one gulp and immediately lets out a quiet burp.

I stifle a giggle and take the cup from him, rinsing it out and filling it with water.

As he’s taking a drink and wisely holding the cup with both hands, I squat to get on his level and smooth back his soft curls. “Don’t forget to go to the bathroom,” I remind him.

He nods dutifully. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going on a trip,” I whisper.

He leans in, and his bright blue eyes widen into saucers. “Is it a secret?”

I nod. “Can I trust you?”

“Oh yes,” he says without pause. “But do you have to go?”

And that’s the question, isn’t it? The big question pounding in my head and in my heart. “Yes,” I tell him with a firm smile. “I do.”

He pouts briefly before putting on a brave face, shoulders pinned back. “I love you, Cin-Cin.”

“I love you, Gus-Gus.”

“Tell the pilot to do a good job,” he says as he turns to walk back down the hallway to his room.

“I’ll let him know you said so.”

My meeting with Crowley Vincent is at a restaurant so fancy I didn’t even realize it existed after living in this city for four years. Le Bernardin is situated in Midtown on West Fifty-First Street, just a block from Radio City Music Hall. When I arrive at noon—9:00 a.m. back in LA—I’m escorted to a private dining room large enough to seat at least eighty people.

I check my phone once more before putting it on silent and out of sight in my camel-colored Madewell tote. The villa episode aired last night, and between sneaking out and catching my flight, I managed to miss it completely, which is just as well. I don’t think I could handle seeing Henry and me together for the last time. Just joking on that boat, like I had no idea what was coming.

Inside the private dining room, the tables are bare save for one large round one, which has two settings opposite one another. Crowley Vincent sits with his long legs crossed and dangling at the side of the table. His pointed white crocodile loafers are exquisite and look like they’ve never seen a walking surface rougher than shag carpet. He wears a white mesh tank top tucked into a pair of tailored green velvet trousers, and hanging like a cigarette between his lips is a felt-tip pen.

He clears his throat and stands, plucking the pen from his lips with two fingers. “You must be Cindy,” he says in a severe British accent.

“I am. It’s so wonderful to meet you, Mr. Vincent.”

“Call me Crow,” he insists, pronouncing it like it rhymes with wow. He makes little flighty wings with his hands before motioning for me to sit down. “I’d like to actually eat lunch if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course,” I say, unable to hide the confusion in my voice.

“You’d be surprised to know that no one ever eats lunch at lunch meetings.”

“Oh.” I laugh. “Well, I pregamed the menu before I got here.”

“Oh, do tell,” he gushes.

“I think I’m going to take a chance on the halibut.”

“Brava,” he says. “The pickled beets are a revelation. Did you catch that?” he calls over my shoulder.

I glance behind me to find a sharply dressed woman lurking a few tables behind us. She nods.

“I’ll have the salmon,” he says.

“Thank you so much for meeting with me today,” I tell him. “I’m trying to act as professional as I can…but I’m…just a really big fan.”

“I like people who aren’t scared to like things.”

That sets me slightly at ease.

“So Renée tells me you’re straight off a television show.” He says the word television like it’s a foreign word he’s only just trying out for the first time.

“I am. I…hope that’s not a problem….”

He nods and puffs on his pen, and I get the feeling he’s recently kicked a smoking habit. “I saw a highlight reel of sorts. You’ve got good taste.”