And, finally, thank you to Farly, without whose unwavering cheering and championing I would not have written this book. You are—you always will be—my favorite love story.

It’s a hackneyed notion for a reason: a couple needs to be really, really good friends.

When you’re looking for love and it seems like you might not ever find it, remember you probably have access to an abundance of it already, just not the romantic kind. This kind of love might not kiss you in the rain or propose marriage. But it will listen to you, inspire and restore you. It will hold you when you cry, celebrate when you’re happy,

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.

I said goodbye to the last ten years like an old friend. One I had finally outgrown, but would remember forever. Rambunctious, restless, and ramshackle. Roving, raucous, and rebellious. My roaming decade; my roaring twenties.

“So, what do we do now? Start playing bridge?” I suggested. “Get gout?” “No, no, that’s not forty-something tourism, that’s sixty-something tourism, we only go on holiday in the decade above.” We both thought long and hard. “Tate membership,” she declared finally. “That’s forty-something tourism. And minimalist interiors.” “Going to bed at nine thi

But tonight, I’ve realized, I’m not a tourist anymore. I can’t go on holiday into my thirties, then retreat back into the shabby hopefulness of my twenties. I’m actually just there now.” “Oh God,” I said, the poignancy of her words weighing down on me. “You can never . . . leave. You’re a resident. It’s like all the irony of adulthood has gone.”

To me, we are all exactly the same age we were when we met.

To lower your heart rate and drift off on nights when sleep feels impossible, dream of all the adventures that lie ahead of you and the distances you’ve traveled so far. Wrap your arms tightly round your body and, as you hold yourself, hold this one thought in your head: I’ve got you.