Chapter 10 The Long Goodbye
THE LONG GOODBYE
EVAN
August arrived like a death sentence wrapped in summer heat, each day bringing us closer to the moment I'd been dreading since Nate had first mentioned Chicago with stars in his eyes.
Three months of stolen time, of pretending that September wasn't coming, of memorizing the sound of his laugh like I could somehow store it up against the winter that was about to settle into my bones.
Now it was here. Moving day. The end of everything that had mattered for the past three years.
I stood in the doorway of the Harrington house, watching Anna flutter around Nate's room like a bird with a broken wing, trying to make sure he had everything he needed for a life that wouldn't include any of us.
Boxes lined the hallway, each one labeled in Nate's careful handwriting.
“Camera Equipment - FRAGILE.” “Books.” “Photos - Handle with Care.”
The sight of them made my chest tight, like someone had wrapped barbed wire around my ribs and was slowly tightening it with each breath.
“I think that's everything,” Anna said, wiping her hands on her jeans and surveying the controlled chaos of departure. “Though knowing you, you'll realize you forgot something important the second you get to Chicago.”
“That's what online shopping is for, Mom,” Nate said, but his voice had that forced cheerfulness that meant he was struggling just as much as the rest of us.
I sat heavily in the chair by his window, the one where I'd spent countless hours watching him edit photos or listening to him plan impossible adventures. Now it just felt like a front-row seat to my own execution.
“Evan, honey, could you help Michael load the car?” Anna asked, but her voice was gentle, like she understood that asking me to participate in Nate's departure was its own form of cruelty.
I nodded anyway, because what else could I do? Being useful was better than sitting here drowning in the weight of everything I couldn't say.
“What did you pack in here?” I muttered, hefting a box that felt like it was full of concrete.
“My entire vinyl collection,” Nate said, grinning despite the strain around his eyes. “Couldn't leave those behind. A photographer needs good music for editing sessions.”
“You could have just used music online like a normal person.”
“Where's the soul in that? Vinyl has character, history. Each scratch tells a story.”
I wanted to say that some stories weren't worth preserving, that sometimes it was better to let things go rather than carry the weight of memory everywhere you went.
Instead, I just carried his boxes and tried not to think about how empty his room would look tomorrow, how quiet the house would be without his laugh echoing through the halls.
Anna hugged me when we finished loading the car, her arms tight around my shoulders in a way that reminded me painfully of my own mother. The scent of her perfume—something floral and warm—made my throat close up with grief I didn't know how to process.
“Thank you,” she whispered against my ear. “For being his friend. For helping him find his place here. He wouldn't have made it through high school without you.”
I wanted to tell her she had it backwards, that Nate was the one who'd saved me. That he'd taken a broken, silent boy and somehow convinced him that his voice mattered, that his thoughts were worth sharing, that love was possible even for someone who carried too much darkness in his bones.
But I just nodded and stepped back, my throat too tight for words.
Nate clapped me on the shoulder, the casual touch sending electricity through my nervous system in ways I'd never learned to control.
“You'll visit, right?” His voice was carefully light, but I caught the tremor underneath. “Chicago's not that far. Just a plane ride away.”
A plane ride and a lifetime and worlds I'll never be able to cross.
“Maybe,” I managed, though we both knew it was a lie.
“Or maybe I'll come back for breaks,” Nate continued, still smiling but his eyes too bright. “Thanksgiving, Christmas, spring break. Hollow Pines isn't getting rid of me that easily.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to imagine a future where holidays brought him home, where I'd have something to look forward to besides the endless progression of pack responsibilities and Alpha training.
But I could already see it happening—how distance would fade what we'd built here, how new experiences and new people would crowd out memories of a small town and the boy who'd loved him from a careful distance.
People moved on. It was what they did, what they were supposed to do.
The smart thing would be to let him go cleanly, to make this easier for both of us by pretending it didn't matter as much as it did.
But I'd never been good at smart choices when it came to Nate.
The drive to the bus station passed in a blur of pine trees and gathering dusk, the Evernight Forest pressing close on both sides of the road like it was trying to hold us all inside its borders.
I pressed my face against the window and watched familiar landmarks flash by, each one a memory tied to three years of friendship and something deeper that I'd never been brave enough to name.
Nate talked nonstop from the passenger seat, his voice bright with forced enthusiasm as he described his dorm room, his class schedule, the photography lab he'd have access to starting next week.
Anna and Michael asked questions and made appropriate encouraging noises, but I could hear the strain underneath their support.
We were all pretending this was normal, healthy, the natural progression of a young man's life. We were all ignoring the fact that it felt like amputation.
“The program director said they have darkrooms that are basically professional grade,” Nate was saying, twisting in his seat to include me in the conversation.
“Can you imagine? Actual film processing equipment, not just digital labs.
I might finally get to experiment with some of the techniques I've been reading about.”
I made a sound that might have been agreement, but my throat felt too tight for actual words. Everything he was describing sounded amazing, the kind of opportunities I knew he deserved, the kind of future that could only happen away from a small town that would never understand his talent.
So why did it feel like listening to him plan his own funeral?
“And the city,” he continued, eyes lighting up in a way that made my chest ache. “Evan, you should see the photos online. The architecture, the light at different times of day, the people. There's so much to document, so many stories to tell.”
“Sounds perfect for you,” I said, and meant it despite the way the words tasted like blood and goodbye.
Nate's expression softened, some of the manic brightness fading into something more real.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think it will be.”
The bus station was a study in small-town functionality—a single-story building with plastic chairs and vending machines that probably hadn't worked since the Clinton administration.
A handful of people waited with suitcases and resigned expressions, all of us bound together by the universal experience of leaving places we'd rather stay.
Anna immediately went into full mother mode, fussing over Nate's carry-on bag and making sure he had his phone charger, his wallet, enough snacks for the journey. Michael stood apart, jaw set in that particular way that meant he was feeling emotions he didn't know how to express.
I lingered at the edge of their family bubble, hands shoved deep in my pockets to hide the way they were shaking. The bus idled nearby, diesel exhaust mixing with evening air that tasted like pine and endings.
This was it. The moment I'd been dreading for months, arriving with all the inevitability of a natural disaster.
Nate finished hugging his parents, accepting final reminders about calling home and eating regular meals and remembering that they loved him no matter what.
Then he turned to me, and the world narrowed down to just the two of us standing in a pool of fluorescent light while everything I'd never said burned in my throat like swallowed fire.
“So,” he said, trying for casual and missing by miles. “Guess this is it.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice to hold steady if I tried to speak.
“You'll be okay without me?” The question was half-tease, half-prayer, and I could see the real fear underneath it. Fear that I wouldn't miss him, that our friendship had meant more to him than it had to me, that he was just another person leaving while I stayed unchanged and unmoved.
If only he knew. If only I could find the words to explain that okay was the last thing I'd ever be again, that he was taking the best parts of me with him whether he meant to or not.
Instead, I pulled out my notebook and wrote:
Good luck.
Two words. Pathetic against the weight of everything I wanted to say, everything I needed him to know before he disappeared into a life that wouldn't include me.
Nate read the words and smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
“Thanks,” he said. “I'll need it.”
The bus driver called for boarding, and suddenly we were out of time. Out of stolen moments and careful conversations and the luxury of pretending this wasn't happening.
Anna hugged Nate one more time, whispering something in his ear that made him blink hard and nod. Michael shook his hand. Then it was just me and him, standing in the space between staying and going.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his shampoo, could see the flecks of gold in his blue-green eyes.
For a heartbeat, I thought he might say something that would change everything.
Might confess that he didn't want to go, that Chicago could wait, that what we'd built here was worth more than any dream of artistic success.
Instead, he reached out and squeezed my shoulder, his touch burning through the thin fabric of my shirt.