Page 15

I unlock mine and step inside.

The walls are definitely blue; a shade chosen with great confidence and very little consideration for how it actually feels to exist inside it.

The bed is made neatly, a quilt folded at the foot that looks handmade and slightly too antique to risk using. A small desk sits beneath the window, paired with a lamp that turns on with a decisive click. The bathroom smells faintly of lavender and bleach.

I drop my bag beside the bed and sit on the edge, shoes still on, my shoulders sagging. Six hours in the car has settled into my bones.

Flying wasn’t really an option. The closest airport is four hours away, which means dealing with checking bags and security and boarding just to save a few hours that wouldn’t actually be saved once traffic and everything else are factored in.

My body has reached the heavy, hollow stage of exhaustion where every horizontal surface begins to look negotiable. My stomach, meanwhile, has spent the last twenty miles reminding me that our gas station stop was several hours ago and that what I ate there failed to meet even its modest nutritional obligations.

I sit for a moment, weighing the options as if this is a real decision. It isn’t. Hunger wins every time.

I pull my phone from my pocket and text Tamsin.

Serena: I’m starving and my favorite place likely still exists. Please tell me you’re hungry.

Greasy comfort food is calling my name. The fries are always over-salted, the burgers unapologetically messy, and the dessert menu begins and ends with pie.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear

Tamsin: I have officially ceased vertical operations. Bring back something with cheese.

Tamsin treats mild exhaustion as a medical condition, which I respect.

I change into something marginally warmer now that the sun has started to dip, then grab my key and head back out, driven less by motivation than by the promise of carbohydrates.

The street is already tipping toward evening, that soft, indecisive hour where the day hasn’t fully let go yet. Shop windows glow from the inside. Someone laughs farther down the block. The air smells like fried food and warm pavement baking in the last of the end-of-summer sun.

I almost make it to the corner before I see him.

He hasn’t changed as much as he should have.

He’s broader through the shoulders now, his face a little older, but his dark hair still falls into his eyes exactly the way it used to. He pushes it back with the heel of his hand, and the familiarity of the gesture catches somewhere beneath my ribs. I’ve seen him do it across diner booths and bonfires, half-asleep in the passenger seat, laughing so hard he couldn’t finish whatever stupid thing he was trying to tell me.

Then he sees me.

His whole face changes.

His smile open and immediate, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It’s the same smile I remember, offered with the same uncomplicated warmth, as though several years haven’t passed and nothing between us ever became difficult enough to require leaving behind.

And I guess it didn’t. People drift apart and remain perfectly cordial with each other all the time. Evan and I are evidence of that. It’s everyone else who acts like it’s taboo to still be friends with an ex. For us, there never seemed to be an alternative. We’d been in each other’s lives for so long—long before anything turned romantic. There was never a reason we couldn’t simply go back to the way things were before we started dating.

The only awkward part is that Evan occasionally forgets that part of the plan.

Every now and then he slips a hopeful little comment into conversation—something about how funny it is that we broke up, or how easy it would be to try again now that we’re older. He says it lightly, like he’s tossing out an observation rather than a suggestion.

I usually ignore it. He usually moves on without further comment.

The whole thing has a vague, persistent energy that feels like someone gently knocking on a door I have no intention of ever opening again.

“Serenaaaa,” he pulls me into a bear hug, his big arms enveloping me and constricting just a little too tightly.

“Hey,” I laugh.

“I thought I might run into you soon,” he grins.

“Here I am,” I say.