"You know what's weird?" Jason said, folding the green sweater before tucking it into his bag. "A week ago I didn't know you. Not really. And now..."
"Now you know me better than most people ever have. How is that possible in seven days?"
"We've been living in each other's pockets for a week?" He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's a lot of time. A lot of talking."
"Yeah. A lot of talking." I watched him pack, memorizing the way he moved, the little unconscious habits I'd collected like precious stones. The way he pushed his glasses up when he was thinking. The way he bit his lower lip when he was deciding something. "Jason?"
"Yeah?"
"Come to New York. Just for a weekend. Let me show you my world, see if you can picture yourself in it."
He stopped packing and looked at me, sweater still in his hands. "And if I can't?"
"Then I'll come to Colorado. Meet your friends. See your library. Figure out if I can picture myself in your world." I crossed to him, taking the sweater and setting it aside so I could take his hands. "One way or another, we make this work. Okay?"
"Okay." He kissed me, soft and sure. "Though I should warn you, my friends are going to interrogate you mercilessly. They’ve already been texting me questions."
"Good. I'd be worried if they didn't care enough to grill me."
We finished packing in companionable silence, and then there was nothing left to do but say goodbye to this room, this space that had become ours.
"Ready?" I asked.
"No." He looked around one more time, his gaze lingering on the bed where we'd learned each other, the window where we'd watched snow fall. "But I guess we have to be."
***
The farewell lunch was chaos—red tablecloths, pine boughs, people exchanging final contact information and promising to stay in touch.
I stood near the buffet and watched the social choreography of goodbye, counting down the minutes until I could be alone with Jason one more time. Outside the windows,clouds were rolling in. More snow coming. The weather that would send us all back to our separate lives.
Finally, people started loading their cars.
Jason and I walked out together, no longer bothering to maintain distance. What was the point? The bubble had already burst.
We stopped at his car—a sensible Honda Civic with Colorado plates and a library system sticker on the bumper.
Snow had started falling again, fat flakes catching in Jason's dark hair, melting on his glasses.
"So," he said, hands shoved in his pockets.
"So." I pulled his hands free and held them, not caring about the cold or the people moving around us or anything except the fact that in two minutes he'd be driving away. “Come to New York. I'll book you a flight."
"I can book my own—"
"Let me do this. Please." I squeezed his hands, felt his fingers curl around mine. "I want to show you everything. The city, my apartment, my favorite writing spots. I want you to see what life could look like there."
"And if it doesn't fit?" His voice was small, uncertain in a way that made my chest ache.
"Then we try Colorado. Or somewhere in between. Or we figure out a schedule where we're bicoastal. I don't care, Jason. I just care about making this work."
He kissed me then, right there in the parking lot with people watching and snow falling and Christmas music playing from someone’s car. His mouth was cold and tasted like chocolate cake and goodbye.
When we pulled apart, there were tears in his eyes. "I'm going to miss you."
"We'll text, we'll call, we'll video chat until we're sick of each other's faces."
"I could never be sick of your face."
