Josie’s coffee pot hissed and hummed as I stood in her kitchen, bleary-eyed and slightly disoriented. Her kitchen was a wreck, and I was pretty sure we had wrecked it. I also hadn’t slept not in my bed—and not outside of Big Sur—in a long time.

After our hot kitchen sex, Josie and I had fallen asleep in her giant, sunny bed, the two of us curled tightly around each other. And now all I knew was that it was sometime in the late afternoon. And I was In Los Angeles. In Josie’s home.

I rubbed my hand down my beard, watching the coffee pot work. And set about cleaning Josie’s kitchen.

I’d only ever seen it during our video chats, but up close it was even more spectacularly Josie. Pictures of her family members were framed and hung on the wall, shoved into the sides of cabinets and taped to appliances. The refrigerator was a mural of her and Lucia with other friends I didn’t recognize; old concert posters and movie tickets and tiny paintings and photos of her clients—a collage of her love and the vibrancy of her life.

I straightened her table and found utensils that we’d flung across the room. Swept up the pieces of glass and grinned at photos of Josie when she was a teenager: sullen and punky with red streaks in her hair.

Eventually, I grabbed a mug, filled it to the brim, and stepped outside onto Josie’s tiny porch. It was already a warm L.A. afternoon, and her streets were filled with people. I perched on one of the chairs and watched as families streamed out of the open doors of the church a block away, bells pealing. Little kids on bikes drove by, speaking Spanish and squealing with delight. Cars blared an endless mash of hip-hop and soul and mariachi music. Across the way, towards Whittier, older women were setting up tamale stands and a small collection of fruit stands.

“Buenos dias,” Josie said, and I turned to see her leaning against her front door looking sleepy and beautiful, black-and-lavender hair tangled around her face.

“Good morning,” I said back. “Or actually, good afternoon. I made coffee and cleaned your kitchen.”

“I saw that,” she said with a smile. “I’ve also already gotten calls from my neighbors, my brother, and my parents. Wondering who the bearded hunk on my porch is.”

I laughed. “I’m part of the East L.A. Channel now, huh?”

“Most definitely.” She walked over and slid into my lap, hands landing on my beard. I wrapped my arms around her back and pulled her closer. Pressed a kiss to her warm lips. “My whole family… and, well, neighborhood… is intrigued by the hippie lumberjack I’ve been constantly on the phone with for two months.”

“Hippie lumberjack?” I laughed.

Josie kissed my cheek. “You know you’ve got a certain… look.”

She reached forward, undid the tie in my hair, and ran her fingers through the length of it. I never, ever wanted this moment to end, but I could already feel the encroachment of our long distance. All around me, Josie’s community was enjoying a leisurely Sunday afternoon. The noise, the people, the blend of cultures and languages.

I thought about love and sacrifice. My parents and Isabelle and Maya. About listening because my heart had recognized something in Josie the very first moment we’d met. And I trusted it to know. Like my sister had said, maybe Josie and I were going about this the wrong way.

“If they see us together today, will people talk?”

“That’s a fucking sure thing if I ever heard it,” she laughed again. “They’ll definitely talk. Because it means you’re real. And this whole neighborhood has been waiting for me to…” she stopped for a second, clearing her throat. “Well, waiting for me to find some happiness.”

I brushed her hair off her shoulder. “Can I be that happiness, Josefine?”

“You are,” she promised softly. “And wait… you’re staying today? I thought you’d have to open The Bar in—” she glanced at her phone, “—right about now.”

I chuckled against her collarbone. “My parents are taking over for a few days. I’m all yours, if you’ll have me.” The mood was light, but the look we exchanged was heavy with meaning. “Why don’t you show me your community?”

“An L.A day?” Josie said, clapping her hands together.

“Show me what you love,” I said. “Show me everything.”

I expected to hate Los Angeles, to be constantly comparing it to Big Sur’s magnificence, but with Josie at my side, I felt suffused with wonder and excitement. Especially with Josie at my side, who looked too trendy to be with me. As usual, she was all boots and leather and colorful ink peeking out from the sleeves of her jacket. And she was slightly different here—more confident, more at ease. Lit up with the pride that comes with showing off the place that you love.

We drove down East L.A.’s famous Whittier Boulevard with the windows down and the radio turned up. Low-riders and vintage cars lined the streets. Groups of people were already out, drinking, laughing. Unlike Big Sur, we didn’t cruise under a canopy of redwoods but rather old telephone poles and ancient palm trees, strung with twinkle lights. Jacaranda and orange poppies sprung up through cracks in the sidewalk next to massive murals.

We strolled through Mariachi Plaza and watched dancers and artists. Sampled food from Guatemala and El Salvador. Josie bought art at vendors and chatted in Spanish with the older Mexican women selling aqua fresca. The sky darkened with stars as we drove towards downtown, which felt mad with lights and sounds. The Hollywood Sign winking in the distance and men and women dressed to the nines strolling down the street. The flash of light bulbs when famous people appeared and this almost tangible hum of energy. Like standing on the beach in Big Sur right before a thunderstorm.

On Sunset Boulevard, we sat on bar stools, pressed skin to skin, and drank Old Fashioneds as a Billie Holiday-impersonator crooned into a microphone. Snuck in a late-night Open Mic event and watched burlesque dancers and singer-songwriters grace the stage. Outside, the street had been turned into a makeshift block party with a live brass band, and Josie and I danced for what felt like hours. Breathless with laughter, Josie dragged me to her favorite food truck, and we ate carnitas as grease dripped down our hands, toasting each other with cheap beer and limes.

“How’s your taco?” Josie asked, head tilted and eyes bright with amusement.

“Incredible,” I groaned happily. “This whole night is incredible. And the block party and the music and the dancing and all the people. I don’t even know what time it is.”

“1:30 in the morning,” she said, eyebrow arched. “See? You’re not that much of an old person.”

I laughed, feeling exhilarated, and pulled Josie in for a long, slightly inappropriate kiss as people wolf-whistled behind us.

“What’s next?” I said when I finally let her come up for air.

“One more place,” she panted, tugging on my beard. “It’s my favorite.”