Before
BEFORE
Michael accelerates down Main Street with one hand draped over the steering wheel, apparently every bit as comfortable piloting sports cars as he is mocking strange girls and being hit in the face with pies.
I surreptitiously wipe my sweaty palms on my slacks. Oddly, the silence doesn’t prickle, like it would with most strangers, but waits with a sort of held, anticipatory breath. The interlude gives me a chance to study him, too. To note the finer details, like the fact that he wears no jewelry, except for a twisted silver necklace that bridges the grooves between his collarbones and muscled chest, which are just visible through the V-neck of his black shirt.
He’s dressed more casually today, his sleeves short, his jeans well lived-in, suggesting that yesterday’s business attire was for his coworkers’ benefit. My attention settles on his hands. Like most men’s, they’re square palmed, but the fingers skimming the dash are long, almost delicate. As with his face, I find the contrast compelling.
Most noticeably, though, Michael Drake radiates a...steadiness. I can tell by the way he drives. He seems like the kind of person who trusts himself. Who’s never confused by anything.
As he steers onto Highway 109, he catches me staring. It’s the second time now, but I don’t bother to hide it.
His smile reappears, so readily that I wonder if I imagined that moment of seriousness earlier, when I asked about his name. “What?” he says. “Am I not what you expected?”
“You’re really not. At all.”
“Hmm. Is that a good thing? Or are you about to insult me again?”
“I...” I grope for something that won’t give me away. “...Just wasn’t prepared for the lack of frosting, that’s all.”
He chuckles. “Should I have showed up covered in whipped cream?”
“I would’ve been impressed if you had.”
“Well, damn. I considered it. I came about this close.” He holds his thumb and forefinger up. “But I figured I might not be able to defend myself if you hadn’t had breakfast yet. And we’ve already established that a guy can’t be too careful. Especially around nerds.” His voice drops to a stage whisper. “I’ve heard they’re dangerous.”
His teasing unwinds something in me, and I snicker at the visual of me clambering over the gearshift to lick pie off his shoulder. “You are extremely sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
He raises a golden eyebrow. “Should I not be?”
It ought to sound cocky as hell, but it doesn’t. He says it like he’s genuinely curious as to whether I find him lacking in some way.
I absolutely do not. But it won’t hurt him to wonder.
“What were you expecting?” he says when the silence grows.
It’s hard to say. Mostly, to climb into this car alongside a perfectly normal human, albeit one with a distractingly firm body and nice eyes.
I did not expect to feel like I’d strayed too close to a downed power line, or like Michael Drake makes an entire car’s worth of air sizzle just by existing. I didn’t expect him to use words like altruist , or remember details about me most people never would’ve noticed in the first place.
“Someone less...arresting, maybe?”
“Arresting?” His eyes spark. “You think I’m arresting?”
Well. To hell with it. “Yep. I’m pretty sure that’s the exact word I’m looking for.”
He flashes me a look of appreciation. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before. Arresting . I might like that as much as I like your name.”
“In that case, you’re welcome.”
He smiles sidelong, as if confirming something he already suspected. “You know, it’s funny, because when we met yesterday, I could’ve used the same word for you.”
I give him a narrow look. “Are you teasing me again?”
“When did I tease you the first time?”
I lower my brows and glare, which earns me a spirited laugh.
“Okay, okay,” he says. “But really. When you walked by me yesterday, it was like...I don’t know. Something I’ve never felt before. This tingle started in my head, then went down through my chest. It was almost like I recognized you. Or like I’d been terrified about your safety for a long time, then saw you walking down the street, perfectly fine. It was that sense of relief, almost, the kind that goes so deep it’s like your bones sigh. Seeing you was this overwhelming experience that had nothing to do with what I was looking at. It was...disturbingly powerful, actually. Arresting .”
My jaw slackens. He delivers all this like he’s telling me about something that happened at the grocery store. No hesitation or coquettishness. Just utter, transparent candor. “All that happened just when you looked at me?”
“Yeah. I mean, I was listening to what you were saying, too, which might’ve had something to do with it. But whatever that feeling was, I knew I had to talk to you. If you hadn’t stopped at the booth, I would’ve left Ben’s great-aunt hanging and chased you across the fairgrounds covered in pie.”
A stilted laugh erupts. I have no idea what’s happening, only that Sarah was wrong about one thing. This guy definitely didn’t want to drive alone today.
He doesn’t really seem like an asshole, either.
“And then what?” I hear myself say. “What would you have said to me?”
“The same thing. That I wanted to take you to Seattle. Though I probably would’ve had more explaining to do, in that scenario.”
I shake my head. “Are you sure you weren’t looking at Kate while all this was happening?”
“Kate? Who’s Kate?”
“My best friend. The runway model you got into a catfight with.”
“Oh.” The warmth in his voice fades. “Right. She’s pretty, I won’t lie. But I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking at the dark-haired writer who’s willing to move to Greece just for the hell of it. The one who knows exactly what ‘aid and abet’ means.”
“Wow.” I stare. “You really were eavesdropping.”
“Shamelessly.” He steers the Audi through a tight curve with enough speed that my back melds with the leather seat, but he seems so sure of his ability that I end up feeling sure of it, too. When the g-forces loosen their grip, Michael looks over again.
The touch of his eyes burns a path down into some eager, uncharted part of me. Heat flickers and flares in my belly.
I jerk my gaze away. It’s entirely physical, I tell myself. The inevitable reaction to sharing a car with someone so striking. So what if that someone also happens to function with a degree of openness I’ve never encountered and appreciates my vocab—
Nope. I steer my thoughts back into their lane. Patrick. Rosalie . I have a job to do. A foreign country to get to. A life to go live. In three hours, I’ll leave this unexpectedly arresting man behind, and after that, in all likelihood, I’ll never see Michael Drake again.
Which is fine.
Totally, completely fine.
I fiddle with my purse strap until the sparkle in my blood dissipates, then retreat to the bland, superficial topics strangers usually default to.
Michael’s amused expression makes me suspect he knows what I’m doing, but he doesn’t protest. He answers all my questions, though his terse responses regarding architecture soon spur me elsewhere. When I ask about his hobbies, he catches me off guard by waxing poetic about books and nature. He hikes. He camps. He does read—fifty pages a day, without fail, apparently as a form of mental self-discipline.
“You seem surprised,” he says when my writer’s heart swells to such a size that words fail me.
“I am.”
“Why, because I look like a jackass who doesn’t know what an altruist is?” Light dances in his maybe-turquoise eyes. He’s teasing again. Or fishing for compliments.
Either way, I’d have to be dead not to engage. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I just meant...” I sweep a hand up and down to indicate his sheer male exquisiteness. “You know. Don’t make me say it out loud.”
He flutters his lashes. “But it’d be so much more fun if you did.”
My god. He’s incorrigible. “Okay, you look like the kind of guy who lives at the gym and breaks a different girl’s heart every weekend. Not the kind who reads . There. Happy?”
He laughs. “Well, you wouldn’t be entirely off base with that. But I probably don’t do either of those things as often as you think, and I’m more than just a pretty face.”
Again, it should sound cocky, but again, it doesn’t. Probably because there’s no debating whether or not he’s attractive. He is. Statement of fact.
“Clearly,” I say. “But I can’t believe you read actual books, every day. No one does that anymore.”
“I know.” His voice roughens, mournful. “Focusing on anything more than a scroll through Instagram is like a dying art. But that’s exactly why I read. So I can stay capable of actual thinking.”
My inner nerd begins to salivate. “Did you read this morning?”
“Yep.”
“Which book?”
“It’s called Consumed . About evolutionary psychology and its impact on consumer behavior. It talks about how, on a subconscious level, our genes govern our buying habits, which essentially means—”
“Yeah,” I say. “I get it. Behavior that evolution grafted into us a long time ago still affects our choices today, right? Like, people might do things that seem irrational, buy things they can’t afford for no apparent reason. But deep down, there is a reason, buried somewhere in our DNA. You just have to go back a few millennia to figure out why it’s there.”
He looks startled. “You’ve studied evolutionary psychology?”
“No.” I laugh. “I have an English degree.”
He zeroes in on my face. “Then how’d you know what I meant?”
“I’m a nerd, remember? I read everything. Similar to someone else, apparently.”
Michael’s gaze returns to the road, but something in his posture tells me I still have every ounce of attention not dedicated to driving. “Well, there you go. Even if we ignore what you look like, the fact that you said what you just did tells me I was staring at exactly the right girl yesterday.”
My face heats. I don’t know which part of that to address first. “Ignore what I look like? What do I look like?”
“Like the kind of girl who could break my heart. Forget the other way around.”
A beat passes. “Are you making fun of me?” Not that I’m unattractive—I actually like the wide-set blue eyes and dainty doll’s mouth I see in the mirror. But I don’t usually stun people like Kate does, and palling around with her hasn’t exactly led to a flood of choices in the romance department. Guys almost universally gravitate toward her first, and I’ve never had any interest in her leftovers.
“No.” Michael chuffs a ragged laugh, almost to himself. “You’re not one of those weekend conquests you just talked about. You’re the kind of girl that leaves permanent scars. I can tell.” The way he says it strikes me. He sounds, of all things... pleased by that.
My blush blossoms in full. I angle away, hauling myself back from the brink of some luscious abyss I don’t dare jump into.
On any other day, I’d dive in headfirst. Even now, I want to so badly it hurts not to. But I can’t. Won’t. Patrick. Work. Greece . Freedom.
I need to keep this guy at arm’s length.
I have my work cut out for me, though, because no matter how benign the topic, Michael always veers toward something deeper. It’s like he doesn’t have a setting called small talk . He’s unabashedly interested in the world and its ways, and has thoughts, theories, about everything. He wants to know mine, too. As the miles melt away, he asks about my innermost dreams, my writing, what I’d do if today was my last day on earth. Then he listens, rapt, as if I might say something ingenious and it’s his job to watch for it.
“One day to live?” I echo. I don’t even have to think about it. “That’s easy. I’d leave the country.”
“Really? Why that?”
“Because I’ve never done it before.”
His eyebrows jump. “You’ve never been to Mexico? Spring break in the Bahamas?”
“I’ve never even been to Canada.” I grip the seat as he guides us through another serpentine curve. “Which is crazy, because I’ve dreamed about other countries since I was little. But the closest I could ever get was reading. Then writing my own stories, eventually. In high school, I used to make up these travelogues about all the languages I’d heard, the streets I’d wandered, the new foods I’d discovered. I was obsessed with writing it down, and I’ve always wondered if reality would match up with the dream.”
His long fingers drum against the wheel. “So that’s why you’re moving to Greece? To find out?”
“Yeah. That, and...” I trail off. There’s another reason. A fantasy, more like. One I haven’t even told Kate about. But the confession will only make me sound starry-eyed and naive, so I pretend to find importance in the greenery rushing past the window.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s...nothing.”
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.” Michael’s eyes slit. “Let me guess. You want to be a travel writer? Combine your two passions into a way to make a living?”
The question lands low and solid in my belly, and for a moment, I can’t speak. I can only stare at him while something inside me rearranges itself.
“Am I off base?”
“No.” My voice comes out flimsy, no more than a breath. “But...how’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Read my mind.”
The smile that never quite leaves his lips flares again. “I didn’t. I just paid attention while you talked. Put the pieces together.”
I suck in air so hard my bottom lip folds under my teeth. Whatever’s happening right now, I have no idea how to handle it. Kate and my parents listen well enough, but with them, expectation lurks just beneath the surface. I only have to say the wrong thing, want the wrong thing, for the skeptical glances to begin.
Meanwhile, Michael’s expression holds such obvious acceptance that something suspiciously close to tears tickles at my eyes.
I clear my throat. Twice. It still doesn’t chase away the burn.
Thankfully, the road claims his attention again. “My only question is...if leaving the country is important enough that you’d spend your last day doing it, why haven’t you already? You said the closest you could get was reading, which makes it sound like something was holding you back.”
I gulp. I almost wish he weren’t so astute. My eyes drop to my lap as memories march past—all those nights when my mother camped out on the living room couch, poring over old photographs and building mountains of tear-stained tissues.
I think of the times she waited outside under the porchlight if I overshot curfew by a single minute. And my sophomore year of college, when I broached the subject of studying abroad in New Zealand.
Not a chance , she’d said, twisting her wedding ring around her finger, the way she always does when she’s anxious. Don’t you remember what happened to your brother? And to Margo? How can you even consider it?
How, indeed.
I look up. My gaze tangles with Michael’s.
Oh, god. I’m going to tell him. About all of it. How my brother, Jasper, died in another country the day I was born, how a fear of foreign places has held our family in a clenched fist ever since. How I spent my childhood burying my longings so deeply I fear I’ll forget them myself someday. How I once had two best friends, until Margo went off to a foreign-exchange program in high school and never came back, thus solidifying my parents’ terror forever.
Long-buried truths tumble up my throat like caged animals starving for freedom, and—
My phone rings.
I seal the words behind my lips, shaking myself. What the hell am I doing? I fish through my purse, then suppress a groan at the name on the screen.
My mother. How fitting.
I flick the button. “Hello?”
“Mina?” She shapes my name into something small and fretful—she always does, at least until I convince her I’m safe. I forgive her in nanoseconds, though, the way any daughter with an ounce of compassion would. “Are you okay? Where are you?”
“Mom, I’m always okay.” I use my gentlest tone, this ritual ageless by now. “I’m on my way to Rosalie’s.”
“Oh, good. I just wanted to make sure you got on the road all right. You’re with Kate?”
I glance at the specimen beside me. From a certain angle, he does kind of look like a male version of my best friend—blond, toned, ferociously good-looking, enough that I feel like I’m staring directly at a light bulb and might incinerate my retinas if I don’t look away soon. “Yep. With Kate. She’s driving.”
“Hi, Mom,” Michael says in a falsetto so absurd that I make a snapping motion with my hand in an attempt shut him up.
He winks.
I glare.
Thankfully, the road noise proves significant enough that my mother doesn’t catch the exchange, because relief colors her voice. “Well, tell her I said hi. And text me when you get in, will you? Just so I know you’re safe.”
“Of course.” As if I need the reminder. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, honey.”
After hanging up, I shake my head in disapproval. “Nice.”
Michael chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. “What? I was only playing along.”
“No, you were playing with fire, was what you were doing.”
His amusement only deepens. “Is she really that protective?”
“You have no idea.”
“Oh, come on. Aren’t you in your twenties?”
“Yeah, but...she has her reasons.”
He must catch the tightness in my voice, because he sobers. “Oh. Well, damn. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I really don’t. Thanks.” I firmly replace the lid on the can of worms I was about to upend in his lap. “Besides, it’s your turn. I told you my answer, but you haven’t given me yours. What would you do if you were going to die tomorrow?”
“That’s easy,” he says, and I wonder if his mirror of my answer is intentional. He gestures between us. “I’d do this.”
“What, drive me to Seattle?”
“Yep.”
I roll my eyes. “No, really.”
“Really.”
My god. I should’ve known better than to ask. It seems no question is harmless with this guy. “You’re telling me the top item on your bucket list involves three hours in a car with a stranger?”
“Not exactly.” He shifts his hand from the top of the steering wheel to the bottom, which makes the muscles in his forearm dance in a way I try my best not to notice. “I’m saying I don’t have a bucket list.”
“No way. Everyone has a bucket list.”
A lock of gilded hair sneaks down over his forehead. He rakes it back, revealing a crease between his brows.
Oh. He’s serious.
“They do,” he says slowly, “but only because most people are asleep. They’re out there shuffling through one day after another, waiting for life to start happening to them at some indeterminate point in the future. They tell themselves they’ll finally take that dream trip once they get a promotion or pay off that credit card. Only they never get the promotion. They never pay off the credit card. Or if they do, they find some other arbitrary goalpost, then end up looking back on their lives forty years later and realizing they spent the whole thing wishing they were somewhere else. Doing something else. They sleepwalked through the best years they had and didn’t notice until too late.”
A cold prickle settles into my bones. It’s like he’s captured my deepest fears—things I haven’t even dared articulate to myself—in a few ruthless sentences. “But not you? Everyone’s asleep, but you’re awake?”
“I try to be. I’m not saying I have it all figured out, just that life’s happening to us all the time already. The way I see it, there’s no such thing as tomorrow, because it’s only ever right now . I’m only ever right here . So the best option is to make each moment count. To live inside it with everything I have. Which means if today’s my last day, then yeah. I’ll spend it just like this. Here. With you.”
I stare at him for the hundredth time, only now...I don’t see the face, or the hair, or the eyes. I see a man who isn’t scattered or divided, but here in his entirety, and who doesn’t need anything else.
Holy shit. No wonder he seems so sure of himself.
And no wonder he draws me like a magnet. Already, half of me has rushed into next month and boarded a plane to Athens. Meanwhile, the other half is busy worrying whether it would be easiest to live in my brother’s shadow forever, the way my parents would prefer.
“Do you...?” I trail off, then try again, even though something in me curls tight at the question. “Do you think I’m asleep?”
Michael searches my face. “Maybe. But if so, you’re in the process of waking up, and that’s all that really matters. Because if there’s no such thing as tomorrow, then there’s no such thing as yesterday, either. The only thing that counts is what you do with your right now.”
The words hit like a freight train. Between that and his casual approval of my innermost hopes, I feel like I’m staring in a brand-new direction I didn’t even realize existed. Suddenly, I’m burning to explore the possibility of right now.
My pulse hurtles into overdrive. What if I don’t get out at Rosalie’s house? What if—
In my hand, my cell dings, scattering the thoughts like blown confetti. Kate’s name pops up.
Crap. I should’ve texted her, but this drive has made it remarkably easy to forget.
I open her message, which consists of seventeen wordless question marks, and fire off a response.
Please don’t hate me, and if my mother asks, I’m with you. But that guy from the fair is taking me. We’re almost there.
Within seconds, a string of red-faced, bleep-mouthed emojis appears.
ARE YOU SERIOUS?!?!?!
I switch my phone to silent, but it still buzzes like an angry hornet.
I KNEW you were gonna do something crazy. Has he tried to kill you yet?
No , I type back. But there’s still time.
Oh, HILARIOUS. Send me his information. At least I’ll have someone to tell the police about when they go looking for your body.
With a sigh, I pop the glove box open and rifle through, somehow certain Michael won’t mind.
Sure enough, he watches my invasion with barely concealed amusement. “Can I help you with something?”
I dig out the Audi’s registration papers and snap a picture. “Just sending this to Kate, in case she wants to steal your identity later.”
The corner of his mouth hitches upward. “Or have me arrested for kidnapping, you mean?”
I shrug, relieved to find the conversation back on solid ground. “That part’s kind of up to you, isn’t it?”
“She’s protective, too?”
“Mmm-hmm. You can imagine how much my mother adores her.” As I tuck the registration away, I spot something even better and pull it out. “Wow. Jackpot. Who keeps their driver’s license in their glove box?”
His brow wrinkles. He studies the card as if he doesn’t remember stashing it there. “I do, apparently.”
“But what happens if you’re out somewhere and need to buy alcohol?”
“Trick question. No one ever needs to buy alcohol.” Despite his easy answer, he stares at the flimsy rectangle as if itching to snatch it away.
It’s the first sign of anything other than complete self-assurance, and I latch on to the possibility that he might not be as incredible as he appears. Anything to make the next month at Rosalie’s feel as tempting as it did a few hours ago.
Angling the license away, I scan for clues. Apparently Michael Bradley Drake is six foot three, weighs a hundred and eighty-five pounds, and has a birthday in February, two years before mine, which currently makes him twenty-five to my twenty-two. There’s also an address in Seattle with an apartment number attached.
No surprises there. I move on to the picture.
The second I do, I know that’s what he doesn’t want me to see. He’s younger here, his hair shorter, his cheeks fuller. But his expression...
He looks wounded. Haunted. Those blue-green eyes stare out of the frame as if asking how the world has dared hurt him so badly. Try as I might, I find no trace of the easygoing smiler of the past few hours.
Without thinking, I snap a picture and send that off, too. Then I hunt for the license’s issue date—January, two years ago. “What happened to you?” I say softly. “Two and a half years ago?”
When I look up, a muscle feathers in Michael’s jaw. He holds out a hand for the license, which he stares at for a moment before tucking it into his pocket. “Something I don’t usually talk about.”
“Oh. It’s a secret?”
“No, it’s just...painful.” There’s a bleak note in his voice—a hint of old, dark blood in the water, remnants of a wound that never quite healed. “I have to be in the right frame of mind to get through it. And with the right person.”
An ache forms in my chest. I try to chase it off with a joke. “I guess we’re stuck talking about the weather, then.”
He doesn’t laugh. “No, I’ll tell you. I just... Don’t repeat this, please. It’s not something I share with just anyone.”
That strikes me dumb, because I am just anyone.
But for whatever reason, Michael doesn’t seem to think so. He soldiers on, looking raw and determined. “It had to do with a girl. My brother’s fiancée.”
“Oh.” Irrational jealousy stabs through me. “You were in love with your brother’s girlfriend?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I mean...Lily was incredible, in lots of ways. Pretty, like your friend Kate. Kindhearted. But she was so focused on ticking off the boxes people expected her to that she never stopped to wonder what she wanted for herself. Maybe that made her feel safe, letting others decide what she should dream about. And it’s definitely why my brother adored her so much. She didn’t demand a whole lot. Didn’t mind making him her priority. Which is kind of his thing.”
I frown, not at all certain of where this is going.
“Not that he didn’t treat her well. He spoiled the shit out of her, actually. But then she...died.” Michael’s jaw works, as if he’s chewing on something bitter and can’t decide whether to spit it out or not. “Because of something I did. Lily died, and it was my fault.”
“Oh. Oh... god .”
“It was an accident, but...it’s something I can never make right. And trust me, I’ve tried. I’m still trying.” His voice roughens, turning hollow and ancient. “But it’s too late. She’s gone, and nothing I do can ever be enough. I’m pretty sure my brother wishes I’d never been born.”
Horror pools in my stomach. To be responsible for someone’s death, even by accident...
“Holy shit,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. It was...not a good time in my life. Hence the picture.”
“Wow. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.” I wince at the paleness of my apology.
“It’s okay. You didn’t know. Though I wish you hadn’t sent that photo to your friend.”
Heat invades my throat. Why did I do that? I stare out the window, feeling as if I’ve betrayed Michael without meaning to.
The sting only burns hotter when I glimpse the suburban sprawl beyond the glass. When did we leave the forest behind? I hadn’t even noticed.
I glance at the navigation: “Time to destination: 0:02.”
My heart lurches. Two minutes, even though it’s only ten forty-six. Michael has shaved a full twenty minutes off the trip, for which I should be grateful. Except silence pulses between us like a bruise. For a moment, I mourn the destroyed perfection of the drive, then tell myself it’s better this way. Easier.
In my hand, my phone buzzes. Kate again.
That is...not what I expected him to look like. Obviously someone ran over his cat the day that picture was taken, but aside from that, goddamn.
Chest heavy, I type back, Yeah, no shit. Try sitting next to him for three hours and not drooling. It’s harder than it sounds. Then I stash my cell away, because that’s quite enough of that.
Michael coaxes the Audi to the curb. “Here you go.”
Outside the window, a house awaits, no different than the half-dozen other brick ranch homes on the block. Try as I might, I can’t find a single inviting thing about it.
I turn to him, words bubbling in my throat. I want so badly to wrap protective hands around the secret he’s entrusted me with, but a wall has gone up behind his eyes and that perennial smile has finally failed.
I falter. On the navigation screen, the blue line marking my path has disappeared. There’s nothing to guide me any longer, no arrow telling me which way to go.
“I guess I should get out now,” I hear myself say.
His expression flickers. We stare at one another. Sweat breaks out on the small of my back. The Audi’s clock ticks over to 10:50.
I weigh it all—my relentless need to see the world, the unrest simmering beneath my skin, the way my mother’s grief has always bound me up in a box I didn’t dare break free of.
Now is my chance. I only have to step out of the car.
Michael gives me a thin smile, as if he can read my inner turmoil down to the letter. “Time to wake up,” he says, soft as smoke.
Those simple words tilt the world back into focus. I know if I don’t get out of this Audi right this second, I’ll never make it to Greece.
So I unlatch my seat belt. Climb out. Every movement feels like a battle, but I retrieve my bag and peer down through the still-open door. “Bye, Michael. It definitely was interesting.”
“Bye, Mina. I hope you tell me about Greece someday.” He presses his lips together, as if trying not to say more. But I swear his eyes ask a question.
I hesitate, wishing I could stay and fall into those eyes. I want to put on scuba gear, for god’s sake, and dive into that tropical expanse until I have nothing left to explore.
But if I take his number, email address, anything at all, I won’t be able to help myself. I’ll end up staying right here, the same way I always have.
I’ll never know what the world would have offered me.
“Maybe,” I say, though we both know I have no way to get in touch again. I have his address, but I resolve to delete my picture of his driver’s license at the first opportunity.
As I close the Audi’s door, I wonder if I’ll regret this moment forever. But I don’t turn back. Instead, I march up to Rosalie’s door and ring the bell.