“I think,” he said, surprisingly lucid for a moment, “that you’re my favorite person I’ve ever met.” “Oh,” I said, looking back down. “That’s very nice of you.” “And I’ve met”—and here, less lucid, he made a big, drunk gesture—“everybody. In the world. And you’re my favorite. Out of all seven billion.” What did words like that mean coming from a person in this state? I had no idea. “How crazy is that?” Charlie asked, leaning closer to study my face, like he might find the answer there. “I’ve known you six weeks, and I already can’t imagine my life without you.”
