Somewhere in the trees, an owl calls out, low and mournful, and another answers from across the park. Oliver’s hand brushes against mine, tentative and questioning. I turn my palm upward, and his fingers thread through in a move we both know by heart.
“There,” I whisper, pointing with my free hand. “First star.”
It hangs low in the western sky, bright and unwavering—Venus, technically a planet, but tradition is tradition.
“Make a wish,” I tell him.
The blanket rustles as Oliver shifts beside me, his profile silhouetted against the darkening sky. His eyes find mine, reflecting the starlight. “What if I already have everything I want?”
My heart threatens to explode from my chest. “Then wish for it to last.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. Then he closes his eyes, and I watch his lips move silently, forming words I’ll never hear.
I close my eyes and make my wish too.
I wish that this thing with Oliver—whatever it is, whatever it’s becoming—isn’t fleeting. I wish that it’s real and lasting, the kind of thing that survives beyond summer nights and Ferris wheel kisses and picnics in hidden clearings. I wish that when the final school year ends, and we’re both standing on the precipice of whatever comes next, he’ll still be beside me. That I’ll still be beside him.
I wish, for the first time in my life, not to be left behind.
When I open my eyes, Oliver is watching me again. The stars have multiplied above us, scattered across the velvet dark like diamonds.
“What did you wish for?” he asks.
“Can’t tell you. It won’t come true.”
“That’s a cop-out.”
“That’s the rule.”
A laugh escapes him, barely more than a vibration I feel as he moves nearer, the length of his body finding mine in the growing darkness. “Ryan?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad you said yes to this.”
I think about all the times I’ve said no. All the years I spent building walls, keeping people at arm’s length, convincing myself that distance was the same as safety. I think about how close I came to missing this—missing him—because I was too afraid.
“Me too,” I say. “I’m really glad I said yes.”
30
OLIVER
We’ve been lying here for what feels like hours, hands intertwined. Fireflies continue their lazy dance around the clearing, and somewhere in the distance, that owl calls out again, searching for its mate.
But I’m not thinking about owls. I’m thinking about the curve of Ryan’s mouth, the way his lower lip is slightly fuller than the upper, the way it catches the starlight when he wets it with his tongue.
“You’re staring,” Ryan says, not tearing his eyes from the sky.
“Sorry.”
“I didn’t say stop.”
His words ignite something in me. I turn onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow, and Ryan mirrors the movement. This close, I can see every detail of his face. The sweep of his lashes, the faint constellation of freckles across his nose, the rapid flutter of his pulse in the hollow of his throat.
“Oliver. Are you going to kiss me again, or are you going to keep staring?”
I should be surprised at how bold he’s being. This isn’t the Ryan I know. Then again, it’s been a long time. Things have changed. I know I sure have.
