One by one, they drift back inside The Quylt House. Laughter fades, and footsteps disappear, and then it’s just us.
Somehow I’m already at the bottom of the steps, standing beside his cherry-red Impala. I don’t remember walking here.
He exhales as he turns to look at me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” The word scrapes its way out of me.
We stand there.
I’ve already memorized everything about him.
The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck.
The crease between his brows when he’s thinking too hard.
The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m paying attention.
“I’ll text you.” He rubs the back of his neck, like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. “Call. Video. Whatever you want.”
“All of it.” My fingers hook the hem of his shirt.
We both nod, like nodding makes it easier. Like technology can bridge whatever this is.
But there’s no promise.
Not the big kind.
Not the kind that locks the future into place and saysthis is what comes next.
We don’t sayforever. We don’t saywait for me.
We just say, “We’ll try.”
He steps closer. Slow. Like he’s giving me time to stop him.
I don’t. His forehead rests against mine, and for a breath, we’re not leaving or staying. We’re just here, suspended in the almost.
“This wasn’t nothing.” His words hang between us, fragile as glass.
I swallow. “I know.”
My throat tightens. I look away before he sees how close I am to breaking.
He clasps the sides of my face. His palms are warm and steady.
Is he trying to memorize me, too?
“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I nod. It’s all I can get out. If I open my mouth, I’ll beg. I’ll climb into that car and never look back.
My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, then still.
“Travel to all the places you desire. See what you need to see. Take every photo you can.”
I swallow harder, denying the part of me that always does what’s easiest. And easiest would be leaving with him.
Neither of us knows what lies ahead, whether this becomes nothing more than a weekend that burned too bright.
