Page 52

I stand up a little straighter, forcing myself to be here and not somewhere in the past.

"I guess we'll never know," I say flatly.

Lenny reads the shift immediately. Reads me. And the playful light in her eyes—the one that just a second ago looked so much like it used to—fades.

I almost feel guilty. I don't mean to keep her on eggshells every time we interact.

Or fuck it… maybe I do.

But the reality is, I don't know how to be myself around her anymore. Not the version I need to be at least. Strong. Stoic. Aware.

"Well…" She raises her hand again, this time putting the earbud in. "You better get going."

I nod, but we both hesitate, neither of us moving until we take that extra second to soak it in—a moment together regardless of how weird things are or how they end.

Eventually, my shoulders start to shift back toward my building as if they're making the decision I can't. Lenny turns too, toward the start of the trail. And just like we did years ago, we move in opposite directions.

Distance stretches out between us, I can feel it everywhere. The same way I did back then. And without looking, I know she feels it too.

Doesn't she?

How could she not?

Because even as the space grows, that pull doesn't fade.

Years, mornings, miles—

Nothing seems to change that.

10

Lenny

"So, I thought it was going well until he pulled out the puppet."

I pause where I am, my sneakers squeaking against the hospital cafeteria linoleum. "For what?"

She blows a breath through her lips as she continues toward the seating area, the scent of gravy floating around us as the dinner rush begins to thin.

"Girl, your guess is as good as mine," she says. "I didn't stick around to find out."

"And this was a second date?"

She nods, her mouth tight.

"So… no third then, I guess."

She glares at me as she sets her plate on the small white table against the wall and settles into her seat.

Frustration steals my attention—not my own for once today. Not Dylan's either. But someone else's.

A man standing behind a cash register, with short gray hair, a mask over his mouth, and a pale yellow shirt that tells everyone he works here, raises his voice slightly.

"I said this register is closed now." He throws his thumb behind him. "You have to go to that one."

The woman standing in front of him—clearly a visitor in her jeans and gray cardigan—glances over the cashier's shoulder, her forehead creased.

"Over there," he says again, a little louder.