“I know that too.”
He cups my face in both hands.
The way he does.
The way that means something.
“Go to Columbia,” he says. “Or Georgetown. Or wherever feels like you. Go and be everything and call your dad every week and take your actual medication at the actual dose —”
“Bossy until the end.”
“— and know that I —” He stops. “Know that I meant it. What I said in the garden. I meant every word of it.”
“I know,” I say.
“And that —” His voice is very quiet now. “That none of this was because I didn’t love you. Not a single moment of it.”
I lean my forehead against his.
We stay like that.
For as long as we can.
Neither of us wanting to be the one who moves.
Neither of us able to say the word.
Eventually —
I say it.
Because one of us has to.
Because that’s always been me.
The one who says the thing first.
The one who stays open.
“Move in with my dad,” I say.
He closes his eyes. But he’s thinking about it.
I hope.
“Goodbye, Ro.”
He kisses me.
Soft.
Slow.
Like the first real one and the last one all at once.
Like something he’s pressing into himself somewhere permanent.
And then he goes.
