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He’s gentle as he cleans off my neck and chin, then he sinks down onto the mattress and pulls me onto his chest. This, too, feels like instinct. It was precisely where I wanted to be.

He climbs out of the window in the middle of the night. As I fall asleep, I pretend he’ll be coming right back.

24

In early March, the air starts to warm and the sun emerges from the haze it had been resting behind.

As I sit out at the lake with Ford—we sneak here once a week, with no one the wiser—I picture what it will be like this summer, continually forgetting that I won’t be here. Even if I’ve got a month after graduation before I return to New Hope, there won’t be any more unsupervised time with him.

Our favorite conversation is Where would we go? Ever since Kappy mentioned the Cotswolds, it’s been in my head—where I’d go for a summer if I ever had one free. I’ve taken to studying maps when I can.

I’ve been arguing for Greece—a boat from Athens to Santorini, another from Santorini to Mykonos. Stops at the smaller islands, like Milos and Paxos.

“Hear me out,” he says. “Prague.”

I raise a brow. “I just planned an elaborate trip and you’re gonna name one city.”

He elbows me. “I said to hear me out. We start in Prague, and from there we go to Vienna. It’s a straight shot by train. Maybe we go to Budapest from there, or maybe Slovenia. Have you ever seen a pic of Lake Bled?”

He knows I haven’t and is already pulling out his phone. I’m so entranced by the fact that he said we that I’d agree to any trip, but Lake Bled is breathtaking: a tiny chapel in the center of a crystal blue lake, surrounded by snow-capped mountains.

“From there we head down the coast, to Croatia and Montenegro,” he says, putting his phone away.

“It would be a shame to be that close to Venice and not see it,” I say with a grin.

His pinky links with mine. “If we’re gonna be in Italy, we’d better plan to hit the Italian Riviera too.”

I could discuss this with him all day. We’d go from the Italian Riviera to the French one. Then onto Provence, or Spain, then Portugal. I want to see it all, and instead…I’ll be in Bolivia.

“So, what will you do, exactly, in Bolivia?” he asks, as if he’s thinking about it too.

“I think we help kids in an orphanage, and we’re building a school?” I shrug. “I’m not really sure. They do a little presentation for each class when they return, but I missed it. Anyway, they seem happy.”

“And married,” he says flatly. “A bunch of eighteen-year-old virgins isolated together in a foreign country away from their families? It’s almost like you don’t have a choice.”

“Don’t say it like that. It’s romantic.”

“It seems romantic. Shit like that leads to problems. You can’t fall in love at eighteen and expect it to last forever.”

I close my eyes so he won’t see that his words were a blow. Because yes, as stupid as it is, I’ve wondered if this thing with us might somehow survive his sister’s problems and my two years in Bolivia. I guess he’s pretty certain it won’t. “Well, it lasted in my parents’ case.”

I ignore all the current evidence to the contrary. I’m not sure why.

“Did it?” he asks. “How would you even know? You think they tell you when they’re having problems? Does your mom sit down and tell you she’s bummed because your dad is so vanilla in bed?”

I flinch. “Ugh. Don’t talk about my parents that way.”

“I’m being serious though. You have no idea who your parents are. None of us do. We see the goody-goody image they want us to believe, so we think they’ve never smoked pot or had regrettable sex or whatever.”

To think that even a year ago, I believed my parents had an enviable marriage—no arguments, united on every issue. Now I see the microscopic tears—my mother’s spine stiffening as my father speaks at the dinner table, her shoulders sagging ever so slightly when he comes up with a new rule.

They give the appearance of an enviable marriage because my mother isn’t allowed to have a voice. But she’s also chosen that life—she must have wanted a man who’d insist on having his way and taking charge, always.

I just wish I could forget what Larabeth said at the dance.

“Hey,” Ford says, his index finger gently pulling my chin up. “What’s wrong?”

I’ve never told him about that incident—he already hates my dad and is inclined to think the worst. He’d jump to conclusions. “Nothing.”