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We watch the stars in silence for a while longer until there’s another streak of light. I glance over in time to see Mackenzie closing his eyes. His mouth moves as if he is whispering something. I’m so intent on watching his lips that I’m caught when his eyes open again without notice.

“You’re obviously not a Virgo, then,” I tease.

He stretches his whole body out long, then brings his hands behind his head again. “I guess I’d like to believe there’s something more than what we can see—that there might be a little magic out there, as improbable as it might be.”

He sounds so much like Larry again that it makes my heart ache. Even until his last days, Larry was making wishes every time the clock read 11:11 or psychoanalyzing his feverish dreams, insisting they held good omens.

Those habits drove me crazy when he was alive, and after he was gone, they just made me angry. Where was this unseen force he was so keen to believe in? Where was his miracle?

“You don’t think you’re just assigning meaning to things that are purely random?” I ask.

Mackenzie glances over at me, and I think he’s trying to determine if it’s a serious question. The smile he had a moment ago presses into a thoughtful line, and he pauses a moment before saying anything.

“In some cases, yeah, sure. But I kind of like the idea that the universe is out there making little miracles happen.”

I squint up at the night sky, letting the lights from the stars blur in an attempt to see them as anything other than what they are. “I think my problem—aside from the obvious lack of any scientific evidence—is that I just can’t get my head around the idea that we’re supposed to invite some obscure third party to meddle in our lives.”

Mackenzie shrugs. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Don’t you like the idea that the universe has your back—nudging you along your path or sending the right people into your life?”

I wouldn’t be a good scientist if I were to completely refute the theory before at least examining the evidence first. But it takes only one contrary fact for me to completely shut down his idea in my head.

“My mom died when I was sixteen.” I don’t mean to say it so bluntly, but all these years later, I have yet to master the delivery. “She was in a car accident. Some truck ran a red light. He was fine. She didn’t even make it to the hospital.”

Mackenzie doesn’t say anything. I’m glad because I’ve already heard all the obligatory platitudes, and although I know they come from a good place, nobody understands. They can’t.

“I moved in with my Uncle Larry after that. He was this big, burly guy, full of life, and I was the moody, angry teen full of angst, but somehow, we managed to form a weird little family.”

The heaviness returns to my chest. It hasn’t dulled like they said it would. I’m just used to it now.

“He passed away last December. Pancreatic cancer.”

Mackenzie places his hand over mine. His fingers press onto my palm as his thumb strokes the back of my hand: back and forth, back and forth.

“I miss him,” I whisper.

Whoever told me this would get easier with time was a liar. It hurts as bad right now as it did that day he told me he was dying, and I realized I was on my own forever.

Tears prick my eyes and begin to fall, sliding sideways off my cheeks.

“He was the best kind of person.” My voice cracks. “He helped people, but when no one was looking, with no expectations that you’d ever do anything for him. And he was nice. He’d shovel the snow off the neighbor’s stairs or help people he barely knew move apartments. But in the end, it didn’t matter how good or kind he was. He was just gone.”

My tears fall harder. I let go of Mackenzie’s hand to sit up and wipe my cheeks. He leans away, and when he pushes back to sit next to me, there’s a Kleenex in his hand.

“Promise it’s clean. Just a little crumpled.”

“Thanks.”

Mackenzie’s arms come around me, pulling me into his shoulder. “Is this okay?”

I close my eyes and rest my head against him, hearing his heartbeat through his shirt.

“That’s why I don’t believe in any of it. If there is some magic force out there like you say, it’s not looking out for me.”

He strokes my back with his hand until my tears stop. When I finally pull away, I feel 30 percent better and 70 percent like I regret the last five minutes.

“I’m sorry I ruined the meteor shower. I haven’t sobbed on a roof in a very long time.” I swipe at my tears. “I’m definitely not one of those dainty, beautiful criers.”

He reaches out and wipes a rogue teardrop with his thumb. “I don’t trust a cry that doesn’t require at least one honking nose blow.”