“Nah,” he says. “I understand. It all got complicated.”
“Just a little.”
We’re silent for a moment, and I know I should leave. But once I do, I’ll never see this Carter again.
“I’m pretty scared about tomorrow,” he says, and I want to hold him. “I truly doubt I’ll age. Obviously the Layla apology won’t do it. And I never really apologized to your sister.”
“I think that’s kind of beside the point,” I say. “Who knows what it would take to help you move forward? Maybe whatever it is has already happened.”
Carter shrugs, and he looks like he might cry.
“Hey,” he says. “I know you never really wanted to, but... Since I’m... Can you tell me about our relationship? The stuff from before this year?”
“Oh. If that’s what you want, then sure.”
“It is.”
So I do. I tell Carter about the first time I saw him, when I was eleven. The time he balanced a ketchup bottle on his finger, and it careened into the Caesar salad. How thrown I was to be working with him at Scoops ’n’ Sprinkles years later and how quickly I was charmed by him despite all my efforts not to be. Our first date, when we got the times wrong and ended up seeing just the last half hour of some Glen Powell movie. The afternoon I was goofing around on a piano and sang something and Carter was so blown away that it made me realize maybe I could start playing music for an actual audience.
There’s so much more I could say, but I remember his time is short, and I should probably stop.
“Thank you,” Carter says, almost inaudible.
“Sure.”
A car drives by. Then another.
“Do you think I could...”
“What?” I ask.
“Kiss you. One last time?”
And there goes my pounding heart.
“Yes,” I say.
Carter steps toward me, and I step toward him.
We kiss.
It is lovely and sad, and I don’t want it to end.
But it does.
“I’m really gonna miss you,” Carter says.
I nod, try to speak, but my face is wet and my words are jammed.
I put one hand on his stubbly cheek.
“Same,” I finally whisper.
If I stand here a second longer, I might crumble into dust.
I turn and walk toward Mom’s car, which I parked at the curb.
I’ve gone only ten steps when I turn back.
