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“I’m upset because it won’t last,” I mumble.

He looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

“Being happy,” I grind out. “I met someone this summer. It’s dumb, because we haven’t known each other for long, but she makes me happy. But I can’t be with her the way I want to. End of story.”

“Why not?”

“Because she lives here and I’m going back home after the funeral.”

“Are you happy because you’re having a good time with her? Or are you happy because she intrinsically makes you happy?”

“The latter,” I say, rubbing my jaw. “Again, it’s crazy. I’ve only known her for a few weeks. She didn’t even like me for half of that time.”

“Sometimes you just know right away,” Jon says. “I knew my wife was the one after a week of dating.”

“A week?” I echo, raising my eyebrows at him skeptically. “Jon, that’s crazy.”

“Yes. I knew after a week.”

“How?”

He pauses for a second to think. “It’s hard to describe. But I felt crazy butterflies while simultaneously feeling at peace. There was a connection I didn’t have to work for; it was just a deep sense of belonging. Like she’d always been there with me. She just felt right, you know? I can’t explain it. A lot of people can make you feel good, but not everyone can make you feel like you’re truly at home.”

I nod.

His words are confusing, but I kind of get what he’s saying. I’m also a little surprised by his answer. We don’t usually talk about things like this, and he’s more profound than I gave him credit for. And more of a romantic than I ever imagined.

She just felt right.

Okay, but how do you know if you’re right about feeling right? I’m overthinking, but I can’t help it, because I really don’t want to let Robin go.

Jon seems content to leave it at that because he goes back to work, and I follow suit. We work together silently for a few minutes, my brain replaying his words over and over.

“Thank you,” I mumble quietly after a few minutes.

I spend the rest of my Friday ruminating over my conversation with Jon, his words echoing in my brain on a loop. Different scenarios swirl through my mind like a vortex, one that I can’t help getting sucked into.

When it feels like I’m drowning in my own thoughts, I decide to go for a ride on my motorcycle. It’s the one thing that always clears my mind.

I ride around aimlessly with a sense of freedom, the thrumming sound of my bike laying my anxious thoughts to rest. I take in the town around me, remembering places I visited as a child, streets where I hung out as a teen, memories flashing in front of my eyes quickly.

There’s the arcade I went to on my first date as a freshman in high school, where I stupidly won every game until my date was close to tears. A few blocks from it, the tattoo shop where I got my first tattoo with a fake ID to make my father mad. He didn’t notice, so I kept going back to get more and more. Even the ugly high school that I despised so much as a teen makes me smile now as I remember sitting behind the bleachers with my friends after school, talking about girls and parties. The old, run-down movie theater that Mike and I used to go to in middle school to watch action movies now looks brand-new and renovated. So much has changed in the years that I was gone. I am shaken by the deep sense of nostalgia I feel, with none of the painful emotions that usually accompany my recollections of the past.

Maybe coming back here wasn’t so bad. Maybe I needed it to heal the wound that made me leave. I can finally stop feeling guilty about keeping my dad’s affair from my mom. I don’t have to dread running into my father again. I can stop hiding from my friends in Cottondale.

Once the sun starts to set, I turn around with newfound clarity. I’m followed home by the last rays of sunshine, the sky around me stained orange and red.

I return to my rental and take a quick shower before throwing on clean clothes. I’m eager to get to Robin’s. We’re supposed to go to karaoke tonight with Mike and Kora, but I want some time with her to myself first.

Half an hour later, I’m standing outside of her front door underneath the glowing porch light. She swings the door open as if she’s been waiting for me.

Her silky golden-blond hair is in loose waves tonight, and she’s wearing a tight black lace top that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her light blue jeans fit her like a glove. She’s so beautiful, and it knocks the breath out of my lungs every time I see her.

“Hey,” she says, her eyes going straight to the box of oranges I brought with me.

“For my little orange thief,” I say, handing her the oranges with a smirk.

“Tell me you didn’t steal these,” she sputters, laughing.