"You're going to think I'm an asshole."
"Probably." She opens her coffee. "But I'll refrain from commentary."
"I really like her," I say. "I don't want to fuck this up."
She softens. "I won't judge. I promise."
I raise a brow.
"Really. We all do fucked-up shit. I've seen you with her. I can tell you care about her."
"I do."
"That's what matters."
"Other things matter," I say.
"Yeah. But that matters a lot." She motions go on.
I start at the beginning. Finding Imogen's online diary, falling for that version of her, meeting her at the shop, accepting her invitation.
Realizing the women who thrilled my body and my mind were, in fact, the same woman.
I don't share the details—the sexual ones, or the ugly ones. I don't tell her what Imogen did, exactly what drove me to look for meaning after Deidre died, but she guesses anyway.
"It wasn't an accident, was it?" Luna asks.
"Depends how you define accident," I say.
"And you went looking to understand why someone would do that."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. I cover for Imogen without thinking. "She writes about her struggle with depression, but it's never depressing. It's heavy sometimes, but it's funny too. She's got a wicked sense of humor."
"Like Ollie."
He did make a lot of dark jokes, back in the day. "He's still funny?"
"Sober? Yeah. Way more funny if you ask me. But you didn't. So, don't try to distract me by talking about my boyfriend."
"I want to do the right thing."
She leans back on the couch. "And that is?"
"I thought you could help me figure it out."
"Really, Tricky? She has a tattoo that says 'truth is my light' in Latin."
"She didn't tell me."
"So?"
She's right. I should tell her. That's what she would want. But I can't. "She'll run away."
"Maybe. But that's her choice, isn't it?"
"Easy to say."
"Yes. It's always easy to make the right choice for someone else. There's nothing at stake. But that doesn't change things."