“I’ll be back later,” I say, and shout good-bye. I pull on boots and slip outside. My car is parked in the garage, where it always is, and for a second a familiar fear catches in my throat, but today I push it to the side. It’s now or never, and I don’t want to wait anymore. I tap my unused license in my palm as I climb inside and put the keys into the ignition. When the car starts, I just keep telling myself that I can do this, that I’m not afraid, that it will all be okay.
And it is. As soon as I start driving, the fear begins to melt away. My hands relax on the steering wheel and I’m cruising down the highway. Effortlessly. Past Grandma’s and Charlie’s house and school and the place where I fell last year while biking with Olivia and skinned my knee, and where Jake and Rob used to go surfing at the cove. And just like that, I need a new seven. Because not driving is no longer the thing that defines me. And I’m not so sure anymore that there is one thing that defines any of us. Because the fact that Lauren does SAC or that Olivia likes purple or that Charlie has Big Red doesn’t really tell us anything about them. Or if it does, it doesn’t tell us nearly enough. Theirsevens should be that Lauren picks up any responsibility, without ever asking for any credit, and that Olivia stands up for her friends when it really matters, and that Charlie is resilient and strong and that she will hold you up when you can’t do the same for yourself. Those are the things that define us. The way we love the people around us, and the choices we make to show it. That’s what makes us who we are.
As I keep on driving, it’s like a huge gravitational force is pulling me by my belly button toward the Cliffs, tugging me closer and closer so that it feels almost like I’m on autopilot. I don’t need to think. Something else, something bigger than me, is doing it for me now.
When I pull into the parking lot, it’s empty. For a moment I’m disappointed, wondering if maybe I was wrong, but then I see a figure over to the side, by the rocks. I slam the door and walk closer. He looks just like I thought he would. Shirt and jeans, familiar and exhilarating. I approach him from behind. He’s busy bent over something, studying it. I want to go and put my arms around him, bury my head in his shoulder and tell him how I knew I’d find him here. That if he was anywhere, he’d be here, of course. With me. And that there’s something I really need to tell him.
“Hey,” I say. He stops what he’s doing, but he doesn’t immediately turn around. He straightens up, runs a hand across his forehead. “I knew you’d be here,” I say.
Then Len spins around, slowly, and when he does, I’m reminded of all the times I’ve been here before. How much has happened in this exact spot. And in the time it takes him to face me, I realize I’m happy to be here, now, like this. That I’mchoosingto be happy. And that that choice is the best one I have ever made in my life.
“Hey,” he says. “How did you know where to find me?” He’s frowning, and it throws me off. I thought he’d be smiling. I thought just by seeing me he’d understand.
“Grass,” I mumble, because it’s the only thing I can think of. “You were doing a project on grass.”
His face softens. “You came here to talk about grass?”
“No,” I say. “I wanted to tell you something.”
“Yes?” he says. He crosses his arms and looks at me.
“I—I—” I stammer, “I understand now. You were right.”
“About what?” he asks. He’s moved closer to me now, and I can feel the warmth of him. I want to press myself up next to him, to have him put his arms around me, but I force myself to stay still and finish what I have to say.
“You told me something months ago. Something about letting go.”
Len uncrosses his arms, and when he does, that curl swings down onto his forehead. This time I don’t stop myself. This time I reach over and sweep it away, and at the same time I say, “Youwere right. He wasn’t meant for me. And not just because he’s no longer here.”
I can feel Len inhale, my hand still on his forehead. I let my hand trace back through his hair. It’s soft, like the cashmere sweaters my mom keeps wrapped in tissue paper in her closet. “But you were wrong about something too.”
“Oh yeah?” he says. He has inched closer to me too, and one of his hands reaches up to touch my arm. The contact sends sparklers off down my spine. Even though it’s snowing, he’s not wearing a jacket, and I reach for his arm too, and slowly trail my fingers down his birthmark, along one of the many wonderful things that makes himhim.
“Yeah.”
“What’s that?” he whispers. His lips are inches from mine, and I have to bite my lip to keep from reaching out and pulling his face down right this instant.
“It’s not the hardest part of letting go. The hardest part is just making the choice to do it. Everything after that is easy.”
Len nods. “So is that what you’ve done?”
“Yes,” I say.
“And what have you chosen?” His voice is low and deep, and when he talks, it feels like the vibrations of his words are humming through me like music.
“You.”
I can’t be sure who moves first, but all of a sudden our lips meet, and when they do, it’s like the entire world has been turned off because all the light in the universe is existing just between us. Like fireworks on the Fourth of July. So much light you can even hear it.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Len keeps one arm around me, and with the other he points up to the sky.
“Do you see that?” he says.
“There’s nothing there,” I whisper. “Just clouds.”
Len shakes his head. “It’s Andromeda,” he says. “A princess from a Greek legend. She was chained to a rock in the ocean to die, and Perseus saved her. It’s a spiral galaxy, just like the Milky Way.”
“But it’s not night yet,” I say. “The stars aren’t out.”
