The last box was the brass lamp his grandmother read by. He carried that one himself. He set it in the bed of the truck and tucked a folded jacket around the base so it would not shift on the highway.
The truck bed was full.
He turned around.
He was in front of me at the back of the truck. His hand was on the tailgate. I was on the curb in my sweater and my sneakers, no lipstick, the wind off Maple moving my hair all morning.
He looked at me.
I put my hands flat on the front of his coat.
"Easton."
"Yeah."
"Do great things."
His jaw worked once.
I kissed him.
Properly. On the mouth. Not the way I'd kissed him at the lake six days ago, which was a kiss with a door behind it. This one had nothing behind it. I kissed him the way you kiss a man you love when you've decided to let him go.
He kissed me back. His hand came up to the side of my face. His thumb found the corner of my mouth.
I pulled back first.
I had to.
I didn't say,I love you. I'd already said it. The not-saying-it again was the gift.
"Go."
He looked at me a beat longer.
He didn't say it back.
The not-saying was his gift.
He got in the truck.
I stood on the curb. The brake lights came on. The truck pulled out of his driveway, turned at the end of Maple, and went. I watched it the entire way. I was the only thing on Maple Avenue not moving.
When the truck was gone, I stayed at the curb for another count I didn't track.
I crossed Maple back to my own porch. Moose was on the other side of my front door, his shoulder against it, his weight there. I let myself in. I closed the front door. I slid the deadbolt across.
I'd told him I wasn't ready.
The truest thing I had said all week was the lie.
CHAPTER 21
Easton
I'd unpacked one box in four days.
The brass lamp from my grandmother's living room sat on a nightstand in a room she'd never seen, and that was the part of the apartment that looked like somebody lived in it. The rest of the boxes were stacked flat against the wall in the hallway, taped at the bottom, ready.
