“Your mom came by to talk to me yesterday.”
I didn’t look over at him. But from the corner of my eye I saw him drop his face into his hands. I waited. Then he rubbed his face briskly and turned his head toward me. Like he wanted to look at me. But it was a little too dark for that.
“So that’s where she went,” he whispered.
“Yeah. That’s where she went.”
“I didn’t take the damn gun.”
I let out a long breath that I must have been holding.
“Well, I’m awful glad to hear it. Because that would be a pretty scary thing, you know.”
“What do you think I’m going to do?”
“Well, after that time you said—”
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t even bring that up again.”
We gazed at the sky for a minute more. Or, anyway, I did. I didn’t look over at him. I have no idea what he was looking at.
“So here’s the thing,” I said after a time. “Here’s the way it’s going to be. I’m just sort of . . . here now. I’m just here with you. If I can’t get you to go places with me, I’ll just sort of be here.”
“Twenty-four hours a day?”
“Not sure yet. I don’t have the thing all worked out in my head.”
“What if I don’t want you here that much?”
“Not really sure you get a vote,” I said. I was half kidding. I think that came through in my voice. But only half kidding.
Silence while he digested that.
“What about running?” he asked.
“Not going to run on an hour’s sleep anyway.”
“What about tomorrow’s running?”
“I’ll worry about that tomorrow.”
“What about your girlfriend?”
Yeah, I thought. What about her? What about calling and inviting her out to eat, then surprising her with a picnic because it’s more romantic? What about that?
“Here’s the thing,” I said. Then I stopped, and sighed. Because I was letting some pretty important things slip away. Slide out of me. “We’ve been friends since we were three.”
“I know it.”
“I just think that counts for something.”
“More than a girlfriend?”
“If you’re in any kind of trouble . . . then . . . yeah. I’m putting you first. And there’s not a whole hell of a lot you can do about it.”
We sat there together until the sun came up. Without ever saying another word.
It was about three thirty in the afternoon. We were upstairs in his room, playing cards. We were on something upwards of our hundredth game. I’m not exaggerating. I had won about sixty, and he’d won maybe fifty or more.
He looked up at me over his hand of cards and narrowed his eyes.
“Seriously, Lucas,” he said. “You need to get your butt out of here and go have that picnic.”
Obviously, I had told him a little bit about Libby over the course of the day. Libby past and Libby future.
“Maybe some other day,” I said.
“My mom is here. I’ll be right here. When you get back, everything will be just the way it is now.”
It sounded like a promise. But I was not about to leave a thing like that to guesswork or chance.
“Promise?”
“Yeah. Promise.”
I looked at the clock radio beside his bed.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think it’s too late for today.”
“How is it too late?”
“Well, it’s supposed to be a picnic lunch. Lunch. By the time I put the whole thing together and got over there, it would be time for dinner.”
“So? Who says it can’t be a picnic dinner?”
“It’s sandwiches.”
“You can eat sandwiches for dinner.”
I looked over at his phone. He had a phone in his room, the lucky dog. The fact that I looked at it meant I was considering it.
He noticed.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Call.”
I just sat a minute. The tips of my fingers were tingling, but I had no idea why.
Then I got up and walked to the phone.
I knew her number by heart. But I had never called it before. Which means I had memorized it, but not the cool way—by using it. The pathetic way. By staring at it until the numbers were permanently etched into my brain.
“She might have plans,” I said. “Kind of short notice.”
“One way to find out,” Connor said.
“Maybe her parents want her home for dinner.”
“One way to find out.”
I picked up the phone and dialed.
Mrs. Weller picked up.
“Hello?”
“Oh,” I said. “Hi. Mrs. Weller?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Lucas Painter. Is Libby in, please?”
“She is, Lucas. And you have very polite phone manners. Just hold the line a minute, and I’ll go tell her you’re calling.”
I shifted from foot to foot. Caught Connor’s eye. Nodded.
Then Libby was on the line.
“Lucas?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s me.”
“About time you called.”
“It’s only been a couple of days.”
“Oh. Well, it seemed longer.”
It made my face hot when she said that. Or maybe it was the way she said it. I turned my face slightly away from Connor, hoping he wouldn’t see it redden.
“I was just wondering . . .” Then I stalled, and realized I had no idea how to phrase my request. I hadn’t rehearsed this part at all. Which, considering how obsessed I’d been with every other aspect of the thing, seemed strange. “Do you have to be home for dinner?”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I don’t know. What did you have in mind?”
“I thought maybe I could come get you and take you someplace.”
“I’ll ask my mom,” she said.
I tapped my foot and waited, and then she was back on the line, her words all in a rush.
“She says it’s okay and I accept, what time do you want to pick me up?”
I showed up at her house promptly at five, the carefully prepared picnic basket dangling from my hand.
Libby answered the door.
She looked at me. Then down at the basket.
“I hope this is okay,” I said. “I hope it’s something you’ll like. My first thought was to take you out someplace to dinner. But I thought a picnic would be more romantic.”
She said nothing for a moment. Just looked into my eyes. But I could tell by her face
