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I try to convince Nick to bring Henry up here, to me, once I’m finished setting up, but he declines. He seems to think it’s too much of a betrayal or something. Nick goes back down to his apartment while I get everything ready, telling me to knock again when I’m done. I’ll have to get Henry up here myself.

* * *

About twenty minutes later, I shove my suitcase behind a satellite dish, out of sight, and take the short staircase back down to the third floor. I knock on apartment 301, and Nick answers. Without a word, he swings the door open, allowing me to slip inside.

The apartment looks much more lived in than Henry’s place in New York. The walls of the living room I’m standing in are painted a shade of blue just lighter than navy. There’s a huge bookcase covering most of one wall that’s filled with a mix of books, DVDs, and records, not organized in any discernible fashion. A large TV against the opposite wall. And a long black leather couch between them, facing the television.

I see his feet before I see any other part of him. Crossed on the arm of the couch closest to me. And then his head slowly rises above the back of the couch, his blue eyes sending shock waves through my whole system, even if they don’t look pleased to see me. Henry’s legs swivel around, and he places a book down on the coffee table.

“I’ll be in my room if you need anything,” Nick says, avoiding Henry’s gaze as he sweeps across the apartment and disappears.

I close the door behind me and take a few steps inside. Henry stands and moves around the couch. He looks thinner than the last time I saw him. Gaunt, even. He’s grown out a dark beard. I’ve never seen him anything but clean shaven, and it surprises me. There’s one spot that’s patchy, just under the right side of his lip, and I briefly wonder if that has to do with the scar he got when he fell out of our tree house when we were six. He’s wearing a pair of blue athletic shorts and a gray T-shirt, which feels so unlike my Henry. The beard does too.

Hannah was right. He does not look okay. I immediately regret how hard I worked on my appearance this morning, masking how shitty I’ve been feeling this whole time.

“Hey.” Everything I spent the night rehearsing has flown right out of my brain. “Look who ran away this time.”

I mean it as a joke, but Henry’s face is a brick wall.

“What are you doing here, Norah?” he asks, sounding so tired.

“I needed to see you. To talk to you.”

I take a few more steps forward, toward him, but Henry raises a hand for me to stop, his face so wounded that I almost want to back out of the front door and leave him alone forever, just so I don’t have to cause that look ever again.

“I didn’t run away,” he says finally. “I escaped. I had to. The apartment was holding me hostage. I thought seeing you in Chicago, telling you I needed space, would help me move on, but as soon as I got back to New York, the finality of it all crashed through me. Reminders of you were painted everywhere in my mind. My apartment still smelled like you somehow. Citrus and summer. I had to get out. It was too painful to be there without you.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, feeling the tears already. Feeling like I made a mistake by coming here, by putting him through any of this. Feeling almost like I never should have kissed him in that bed-and-breakfast.

Henry runs a hand through his dark hair, which is longer now, and beginning to curl at the ends. “Yesterday I woke up to a text from your sister telling me she’d held her ground with you, and one from my mother saying she’d caved immediately. Mom told me to hear you out. That’s the only reason I’m still standing here. So I’ll ask again. What are you doing here?”

I take a deep breath. “I’ve been seeing a therapist for a minute now. I needed to understand why I do the things I do. To find a way to make better, healthier choices. For me, and for the people I care about. Reagan, that’s her name, she told me I need to stop running. That instead, I need to walk with intention through the matter at hand. I’m sorry it took me a while to get here. It was a long trek. But I was always walking toward you.”

Henry’s eyes sweep around me, like he’s searching a desert, desperate for water. It takes a while for his gaze to glide up to meet mine, and when it does, I can see every ounce of pain I’ve caused all over his face. “I can’t do this. I think you should go.”

I fold my lips into my mouth, trying to keep it together. “Okay. I will. But there’s one more leg of the walk. One more thing I have to show you, and then I promise I’ll leave.”

Henry shakes his head, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you.” The words feel like knives in my heart.

“It’s only like, ninety steps,” I plead. “Probably fewer for you. It’s just upstairs.” I point to the ceiling. “I have so much more to say. I just have to do it up there. And then I really will leave.” I’m losing him. I can see it. “Please,” I beg, a last-ditch effort before all the tears building behind my eyes break free.

“Fine,” he says so softly that I would have believed I’d imagined it if I didn’t see him grab a key ring from the counter and raise his hand, a gesture for me to go.

I turn the knob of Nick’s front door, checking behind me to make sure Henry is following. He slides on a pair of flip-flops (flip-flops!) by the door, then keeps several paces behind me. I lead him up the stairwell, past the alarm that I know won’t sound, and out onto the roof. I take a long, slow breath through my nose, and let my eyes fall to Henry. He’s looking around, taking in the space, his eyebrows tented more with confusion than anger.

“I know I can’t take back things I’ve said or done,” I start, and Henry’s head turns quickly toward my voice. “And I know we had a lot of almost moments.”

I walk over to the first picnic blanket, filled with New Year’s hats and glasses. I’d begged the guy working at my bodega to see if they still had anything in the back and he grumbled the entire walk into the stockroom but reemerged with the sparkly gold paraphernalia I’d been hoping for. There’s a bottle of champagne I bought alongside the picnic blankets this morning, and two small plastic cups I stole from the coffee shop.

“Our New Year’s kiss. The first one that would have meant anything to me. Don’t worry,” I add quickly, “I’m not going to kiss you if you don’t want me to. I know I haven’t earned that yet. I didn’t think it was going to be that easy.”

Henry looks relieved as I walk him over to the next blanket. The Laketon Academy Homecoming banner I made with art supplies I borrowed from Aya, in our school colors of scarlet and gray. I take out my phone briefly so I can press play. “Drops of Jupiter” starts blaring through the portable speaker that’s holding down one corner of the polyester fabric. I step onto the blanket.

“I should have tapped you on the shoulder that night and asked you to dance myself. It was all I ever wanted. You were all I ever wanted, Henry.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he gingerly steps onto the blanket with me. This is the closest we’ve been yet, and I almost lose focus.

“So, Hen, will you dance with me?”