How to Love

that have settled there since he’s been gone. “Hey there,” I tell him, and I have to clear my throat to do it.

“Reena,” he says, and the sound of him saying my name is a murmur down my backbone that spreads like a flattened palm. He presses his index finger to the crease behind my knee. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You really are, though.” God, it would be so easy. How is it possible that it would still be so easy? I take a big breath and slide over on the step, away from him.

Sawyer lets go right away, reaches down for more pebbles to throw and, finding none, sets about pulling blades of grass from the cracks in the walkway. “Can I ask you something?” he says after a moment, not looking at me. His hands are very tan. “If I’d asked you to come with me, you think you would have?”

“What, when you left here?” I look at him curiously. “I was already pregnant.”

Sawyer laughs a little. “No kidding, princess. That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking if you would have come.”

For a minute I don’t say anything and the silence is phosphorescent; it feels like the whole world is asleep. A small green lizard scampers by. I think of the maps folded up in my bedroom, the travel guides and atlases I’m never going to use. I think of my girl, who I love more than any breathing creature in this universe, and tilt my head back at the moon in a silent howl.

“No,” I tell him finally. “Probably not.”

Sawyer nods like I’ve given him something, confirmed what he suspected from the start. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”

In the morning I wake up and find a pomegranate on my doorstep: red and perfect, round as the world itself.

32

Before

Cade and Stefanie got married the weekend after the restaurant caught fire, standing up in front of God and everyone else and promising their lifelong love and devotion to each other, for richer or poorer, till death did they part. The reception was supposed to have been at Antonia’s but, since his kitchen was good and charred, Finch set up shop in ours instead. Soledad and I spent all of Saturday scouring the house, setting up tables in the backyard and filling giant vases with limes for centerpieces. Cade mostly paced.

Now, with only a few minutes to cake time, I was standing on tiptoes in my closet, rooting around on the top shelf for the shoebox containing the yearbook pictures my aunt Carin had to see right this minute, Reena, bring ’em down. I’d just pulled out the proofs when Sawyer wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, rested his clean-shaven chin on my shoulder. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” I grinned at my cardigans. I didn’t turn around.

“Hi,” he repeated, got me farther inside the closet, spun me around to look him in the face. He made for my mouth with no preamble, my back pressing into jackets and jeans: I smelled body spray and tissue paper, and laughed.

“Come to make out with me in a closet?” I asked, taking another step back. “That’s very classy, LeGrande.”

Sawyer shrugged, grinned a little. “We can make out downstairs, if you’d like.”

I snorted. “Tempting, but I’ll take a pass.”

“I knew it,” he said, faux-sulking. “I’m your dirty little secret.”

“Oh, you so are.”

He smiled. “I missed you.”

“I’m really popular at this party.”

“So I see.” He looked out the door of the closet, glanced at the walls. “Did you paint?”

I smirked, looking around. “Like two years ago I did.”

“Oh, man.” Sawyer laughed. “I don’t even remember the last time I was allowed up here.”

“I do,” I blurted immediately, then cringed. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Nah.” Sawyer sat down on the floor of the closet and took my hand, pulling gently until I came down beside him. His index finger traced the skinny strap of my dress. “Tell me.”

“No.” I pushed aside a stack of Budget Travel magazines from last year, the pages gone smudgy and curled with repeated handling. There was one issue in particular with an article about street markets in London that I could repeat almost word-for-word—just like I could remember every detail about the last time Sawyer had been in my room. “It’s dumb.”

“Holdout,” Sawyer teased, leaning back against the wall. It was dark down here: Jeans and dresses blocked out the light from the bedroom and it felt like we were pretending, like we were hiding in a fort. Balled up at the back of the closet was an old sweatshirt of Allie’s, red with a big white cross on it from the one summer she’d spent lifeguarding. I reached for it like an instinct, pulling at one of the strings on the hood. “Come on.”

“I don’t know,” I said, huffing a little as I thought about it—the night he came for dinner with his parents, the summer after freshman year. “It was a long time ago. Allie was here with me.”

“Oh!” he said, remembering. “We played cards?”

I nodded. Rummy, I could have added. Allie borrowed my tank top and you told her she looked old for her age and I wished her away for the first time in our entire friendship while we sat here, thinking maybe you’d notice me after she was gone.

Sawyer must have seen my face change, because he grabbed me around the waist in a hurry, tugged me even closer until my head was in his lap. I could feel the muscles in his legs beneath his gray wool pants. There was hardly any give there at all. “Don’t get weird.”

“I’m not getting weird,” I protested, though I felt like I might be about to. I couldn’t get over the notion that Allie was the third person in this relationship, that wanting Sawyer and feeling guilty and missing her so much it ground my bones to dust was all bundled up together, the strings on a hoodie pulled as tight as they’d go. I looked at Sawyer to see if he felt it too—if he felt her, crammed into my messy closet right along with us—but he was looking at me mildly. Talking about it doesn’t change anything, I reminded myself. “Tell me something good,” I said instead.

Sawyer raised his eyebrows. “Anything in particular?”

“No, I don’t know. Anything. Tell me your favorite movie of all time.”

“The Godfather.”

“Really?” I made a face. “Predictable.”

“Oh, and what’s yours?”

I shrugged, muttered. “Some Kind of Wonderful.”

“Because that’s a bold choice.”

“Shut up,” I said, and he bent down to kiss me again—longer, this time, hands wandering. “Be invisible?” he asked, into my shoulder. “Or be able to fly?”

“Invisible, definitely,” I said. “Be deaf or blind?”

“Blind.”

“Because of the music thing?”

“Uh-huh. When are you going to let me read your essay?”

I grinned; it was a joke between us now, Sawyer saying he wanted to read the words I’d sent off to Northwestern and me feeling too shy to let him. “Someday,” I promised. “We’ll see.”

We made out for a little while longer, ten hidden minutes with my jeans and my sneakers, the Northwestern T-shirt my father had ordered off the internet despite my protests that I wasn’t even in yet. Sawyer ran his fingers through my hair. His free hand drifted down and I tensed for just one second, but in the end he just squeezed my knee, glanced up at the contents of my closet, and nodded. “You’ve got a lot of space in here,” he said, barest hint of a grin. “I wish my closet was this big.”

“To accommodate all your ironic concert T-shirts?”

“Think you’re smart, huh?” he asked, fingertips seeking my sides. I scrambled up before he could tickle me, grabbed his arm to pull him out of the closet. “Come on, Slick,” I said, smiling. “I need to go back