12:01 a.m.
12:05 a.m.
12:13 a.m.
Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe this is a lesser-known stage of grief: digital hallucinations. Maybe—someone pounds on my front door. I sit frozen in the middle of the bed, until he knocks again. He knocks like he’s trying to be heard on the next floor. “Nora.”
“Finn,” I say, as if he can hear me.
Then I’m running across the room. I’m not wearing pants. I stub my toe on bar stool. He knocks again as I try to open the door, forgetting about the deadbolt. “I’m coming,” I shout. “If I can just?—”
Finally, the bolt clicks, the handle turns, the door opens, and he’s here. Finn is here.
“Hi,” I say.
His cheeks are red from cold or exertion. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a hole in the collar and jeans and Converse. He doesn’t have a jacket or even a sweater.
“Were you at Bea’s?” I ask.
He shakes his head, gasps for breath. “My sister’s. I turned my phone on and I was reading your texts and I read that you lo—” He stops himself. Reaches for me, his thumb tracing the shell of my ear. “I had some beers and I couldn’t drive so I took the train into the city and I ran the rest of the way.”
“I thought you got rid of your phone?”
He sighs, adoring, affectionate. “I just got a new one for Germany.”
“Oh,” I say, because what else is there to say when you’ve poured your heart out to a man via a year of unanswered text messages.
“I’m sorry, Nora. I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” I ask, the words wet. I fist his T-shirt, just to hold him, just to keep him close. To prove that he’s here and he’s really real. “I’msorry. I?—”
He presses his index and middle fingers to my collarbone, steps closer, his shoes on either side of my feet. He tips my chin up, and this close, it’s just the two of us hidden behind the fall of his hair. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Nor,” he says. And hesmellslike him. I hold him to me now, T-shirt in my fist, hips under my palms. He’s cold but also so, so warm.
His eyes are bluer than I remember, or maybe that’s just the sheen of tears. “I love you, and I amnevergoing to miss another midnight.”
And when he kisses me, he makes up for every minute, every second of missed midnights. Not just this one, but the one last night, and the night before. And the night before that.
EPILOGUE: FINN
DECEMBER 31, 2026
Nora Baby, December 31, 2026
6:36 p.m.: Finn: Oh man, I’ve been waiting my whole life to say this
6:38 p.m.: Nora Baby: Don’t. Please don’t
6:40 p.m.: Finn: but I gotta
6:41 p.m.: Nora Baby: ok ok just get it over with
6:46 p.m.: Nora Baby: ????
6:47 p.m.: Finn: Sorry, I was stretching
6:48 p.m.: Nora Baby: omg
6:50 p.m.: Finn: Nora
