I’m so dumb to complain, to miss, to grieve, parents who are very much alive, when Callahan lost his mother in a way that must have broken his heart. When Will, eleven years later, still loves her so much he carries her everywhere.
Time is a living thing these days. I hear the clock ticking every time the calendar turns another page. Interviews will start soon. Decision letters in the spring. And then I'll leave Harbor Hill and everyone in it, coming back only for holidays and birthdays.
I'm going to leave Callahan. The thought twists in my stomach like a knife. I press my forehead to my knees and breathe through it.
I'm foolish. Reckless. I walked into this with my eyes open, knowing the expiration date. Knowing that Callahan was a man who belonged here, who was staying here. And I wasn't.
Maybe I am spoiled. Maybe I'm used to having what I want. Maybe I went into this carelessly, not knowing it would hurt.
The back door opens and I know it's him before I turn around. My body knows his just by being in the same room.
His arms come around me from behind, strong and warm. He pulls me back against him, and I let him. I let myself lean into the breadth of him, the heat of him, the particular way he holds me that makes the rest of the world go quiet. He hugs with his whole body. His whole self.
His chin finds the top of my head, arms crossed over my chest. He holds me like he's trying to absorb whatever I'm carrying and take it into himself. I close my eyes and let him.
"I'm sorry," he says close to my ear, rough with regret. "That was thoughtless. I didn't think."
I turn in his arms as much as I can. Press my face into him, my hands flat against his back and hold on.
We stand there on the back step in the dark with the crickets and the distant sound of water.
I breathe him in. "You didn't know it was a sore spot," I say into his shirt. "It's not your fault."
"Still."
I tilt my head back to find his face. His eyes full of concern and guilt, but tender too. Something he probably thinks he's hiding and isn't.
I reach up and touch his jaw. "I'm okay. I just needed a minute."
He catches my hand and presses his lips to my palm and holds it there. How could Rome, or anyone, say this was wrong, when it's the only thing that's ever felt right?
"I have interviews soon," I say, carefully.
I feel the stillness, a slight bracing.
"For medical school. They start in the fall. I've applied to several programs."
"Where?"
"Johns Hopkins. Stanford." I pause. "And Chicago, where I was before."
He nods with each name, his attention on my hand where he's playing with my fingers. Like each name is landing on him heavier and heavier. I can feel him doing the math the same way I've been doing it for weeks. The geography of it. Hopkins is Baltimore. Stanford is California. Chicago is Chicago.
None of them are here. We sit in peace and let that sitbetween us. The cricket sounds feel louder than before. Inside, I hear Poppy and Ramsey have arrived.
This was always going to be the part that hurt. The fact that I was always going to leave and he was always going to stay.
I feel the tears, but I blink them back and smile at him instead. I drag him up until we're standing facing each other, but his eyes aren't quite meeting mine. So I go up on my tiptoes and kiss him, gently. The kind of kiss that's more about closeness than heat. My lips barely moving against his, just wanting to be there.
"Come with me," I say against his mouth. "For the interviews."
I half expect him to pull back. To give me the list of reasons, the impossibility of it. The irresponsibility of asking. I expect him to be sensible about it, because one of us has to be and it's never going to be me.
He searches my face with an expression I've never seen from him before. Unguarded. Raw and terrified and hopeful all at once.
He pulls me closer and kisses me, as gently as I kissed him. When he's satisfied he pulls back, his forehead dropping to mine, his eyes closed.
"Okay," he whispers.
