“Well, for me, of course, but I’m not sure about my friend,” Evelyn says. I take the napkin off the table and put it in my lap. “A chopped salad sounds great, thank you.” Troy smiles and leaves. “You'll like the chopped salad,” Evelyn says, as if we are friends having a normal conversation. “OK,” I say, trying to redirect. “Tell me more about this book we’re writing.” “T’ve told you all you need to know.” “You've told me that I’m writing it and you’re dying.” “You need to pay better attention to word choice.” I may feel a little out of my league here—and I may not be exactly where I want to be in life right now—but I know a thing or two about word choice. “I must have misunderstood you. I promise I’m very thoughtful with my words.” Evelyn shrugs. This conversation is very low-stakes for her. “You’re young, and your entire generation is casual with words that bear great meaning.” “T see.” “And I didn’t say I was confessing any sins. To say that what I have to tell is a sin is misleading and hurtful. I don’t feel regret for the things I’ve done—at least, not the things you might expect—despite how hard they may have been or how repugnant they may seem in the cold light of day.” “Je ne regrette rien,” I say, lifting my glass of water and sipping it. “That’s the spirit,” Evelyn says. “Although that song is more about not regretting because you don’t live in the past. What I mean is that I'd still make a lot of the same decisions today. To be clear, there ave things I regret. It’s just. . . it’s not really the sordid things. I don’t regret many of the lies I told or the people I hurt. ’m OK with the fact that sometimes doing the right thing gets ugly. And also, I have compassion for myself. I trust myself. Take, for instance, when I snapped at you earlier, back at