She nods, her face already in her phone. No doubt texting Dylan.
I got what I wanted.
I’m going to Lake Geneva.
To the only place that has ever offered me a semblance of what home should be.
I’m going to see Brooks after eighteen long months.
Reunite with the most important person in my life.
I don’t read into the burst of nerves and excitement that thought fires in my belly.
10
BROOKS
Age 17
I haven’t answered her texts or her calls.
I don’t know what to say.
That I’m devastated. That I don’t know how to manage my grief. That Gran’s passing has hit me harder than I ever imagined it would. Shit, I had two years to prepare for this.
Twenty-four fucking months and I still want to cry when reality hits that I’ll never see her again.
“That’s my rock.”
I bolt upright, slipping down the mossy rock.
It’s like a fucking dream. Henley, standing right in front of me. Close enough that I can feel her breath as she talks. Close enough that I could reach out and touch her.
Toeing her shoes off, she climbs onto the rock, hugging me tightly.
She smells like soap and mint and not the freshly planted flower bed I was used to. Still, I hug her back just as hard.
“You’re here.”
She moves to pull back, but I hold her tightly. “Give me a minute.”
She stays without argument, but I find myself telling her, “I’m not ready to let you go,” anyway.
Eventually, we pull apart, and I can’t help but just stare at her. My hand itches to reach out and touch her face if only to convince myself that she’s real. That she’s not a dream I’ve conjured up to deal with my grief.
Her freckles don’t seem as bright. The lack of sun during her eighteen months abroad has pulled parts of her away. Her hair is longer than I remember, falling well past her elbows when she sits. Bags hang heavily under her eyes, and I want to reach out and push the pillows of her tiredness down.
Even more broken than before, she’s prettier than I’ve ever seen her.
“You look good,” I tell her honestly.
Reaching up to run her hand over the scruff of hair I haven’t bothered to shave off around my mouth, she smiles. “You’re growing into yourself nicely.”
Again, always so strange.
“I missed you,” she tells me.
“How are you here?”
She shrugs. “I asked, and Mom said yes. I think it had more to do with the fact she wanted a romantic weekend with her boyfriend.”
I grimace. “Jesus, Squirrel, hold the overshare.”
She laughs quietly, the sound both tired and sad.
“I missed you, too,” I tell her.
“How’s your mom? Your dad? How are you?”
“Shit,” I answer honestly. “We’re all shit.”
I rub at my eyes, worsening the dry, itchy feeling.
“Stop.” She reaches out to pull my hand away. “They’re already red.”
My breath catches, and I shake my head in annoyance. “I knew this was coming, Henley.”
“It probably makes it worse. You’ve been grieving her slowly for over two years. Now that you’re finally allowed to grieve openly, it’s hitting you all at once. Bottled-up feelings are like Mentos in Diet Coke.”
Maybe it’s my grief, but I want to touch her again. I want her to wrap her arms around me and soothe my soul.
“How did you know I was here?” I move my thoughts away from the confusing and ill-timed thoughts of my overzealous mind.
“When I dropped my stuff off at your house and you weren’t there, I took an educated guess.”
I pull her into my body, my arm resting over her shoulder as I bring her in close.
“Your mom thought you might’ve been with Evelyn,” she tests quietly.
Fuck.
“You’re staying with me, yeah?”
She nods, letting me ignore her statement. “Yeah.”
“We’re just seeing each other,” I confess. “It’s nothing serious.”
I feel guilt like I’ve never felt before. Like I’ve broken her trust.
“It’s not my business.”
I squeeze her shoulder. “Everything to do with me is your business.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her voice is small and wounded, and I hate myself for it.
“It seemed irrelevant then.”
“And now?” she murmurs.
She breathes in, and I exhale.
I exhale, and she inhales heavily.
“I don’t know.” I finally answer.
I want to beg her to stay. Her home is here with me. But I’m petrified because I know she has to say no.
11
HENLEY
It’s different.
Not different, weird. Just . . . different.
I had to expect it. We’ve changed as individuals, so it makes sense that our friendship couldn’t have remained as it was.
Brooks holds my hand as we walk back to his house. A simple show of intimacy we’ve never shared. It feels like a declaration, an effortless show of possessiveness that, even after so much time apart, brings us closer.
He squeezes my hand, and I do it back.
Is it noticeable to him too? That change? Or am I reading into something that isn’t there to distract myself from my awkward loneliness?
“When’s the funeral?” I steer myself away from my own thoughts.
“Day after tomorrow.”
My free hand slides into the crook of his elbow, bringing me flush against his side as we walk. I hope he reads the gesture for what it is. A promise that I’m here. A show of support that I know he needs.
He leans down, dropping a kiss to the top of my head as we meander back toward his house. “Thank you for being here,” he whispers.
“For always.”
My hand feels clammy. I don’t know if it’s him or me. Whether it’s just what happens when you hold hands with someone, or if my nerves, or his, are getting the better of us. Whatever the reason, I can’t bring myself to untangle. Sweaty hands be damned, I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to touch him like this.
“How often do you go to the rock?”
“Every day,” he tells the trees we’re passing.
I smile. “Do you think of me while you’re there?”
He looks down at me quizzically. “Why do you think I go there, Squirrel?”
His pretty black lashes flutter against his
