Page 48 of The Comeback Summer

“On the windowpane? I know! How did the police miss that?”

“Well, the detective was—”

“In on the whole thing,” he finishes. “Totally agree.”

I slow my pace, not wanting to get home too soon. “So, how’s the knitting going? That’s a useful skill. Remind me to get on your team when the zombie apocalypse happens.”

“Got to keep warm while being chased by the undead.”

I laugh. “Are hats hard to make?”

“Not if I crochet one—that only takes a couple hours. This is harder, though. I keep dropping stitches. Plus, my mom’s dog keeps trying to get me to play with him.”

“Toby?” I ask, referring to the floppy-eared basset hound I remember from our teenage years.

“Nah, he crossed the rainbow bridge a few years ago. Thisone’s a spaniel mix. He’s up on the swing with me, practically in my lap.”

I can picture the scene so clearly, but in my imagination, it’s me on the porch swing next to Josh, my feet on his lap. I can almost feel the breeze through the old red maple tree, almost hear the squirrels chattering in its branches.

“That sounds like a perfect evening,” I say.

“It’d be better if you were here.”

Emotion rolls over me, sweetly painful. It’s like homesickness, and I guess that makes sense. I spent almost as much time at Josh’s house as my own in junior high and high school—his mom and dad were the stable, responsible parents I never had. I ate countless dinners at his family’s dining room table, watched hundreds of movies in their family room. We lost our virginity in Josh’s childhood bedroom, and nowthatmemory flashes through my mind with such intensity I can’t breathe.

It was a summer afternoon after we’d graduated from high school, and his parents were at work. Our make-out session got so hot and heavy that I, who had been nervous to take this next step even though we’d done almost everything else, practically begged him to take my pants off. It was awkward and fumbling, yes, but also earnest and vulnerable and fun; Josh was so concerned about me and my enjoyment that he kept stopping, asking if I was okay, if everything felt good, if he needed to slow down or try something else—more respectful and conscientious as a teenager than most full-fledged adult men. Afterward, we lay in his bed, curled toward each other, foreheads touching, and I remember knowing—down to my bones—that I had found my forever person.

It always felt like that between us. Puzzle pieces snapping together, a key sliding into a lock.Click.

At least, that’s how it felt to me.

If I was wrong about something that felt so right, how can I trust myself about anything ever again?

I should ask him why. Why he left, why he threw me away, why he never came back. But I can’t talk about this with him. It’s still too raw, even after all these years.

“Josh,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. “I have to go.”

And then I end the call and start running.

•••

WHEN I WALKinto our apartment an hour later, I’m still so tangled up emotionally that I can’t process it. Libby is on the couch watchingNotting Hill. The apartment smells delicious, and I see a plate of freshly made cookies sitting on the coffee table.

“How was it?” Libby asks, smiling. But then her expression shifts to concern. “Han? What happened?”

I shake my head, the lump in my throat so huge I can’t get words out.

“Hey, hey,” Libby says, her voice soothing. “Come here.”

She pauses the movie and shoos her demon cat off the couch so I can slump down next to her. Then she puts a throw pillow on her lap and I lay my head on it, feeling like I can’t even support my own weight.

“Was it that bad?” Libby asks, stroking my hair.

I can’t answer. My throat still feels swollen, my chest locked. But my sister’s fingers in my hair are familiar and soothing—she’s been doing this since we were tiny—and slowly the tightness begins to dissipate.

Once I can manage words, I say, “Can I have a cookie?”

She slides the plate close so I can grab one.

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