She might be looking at me, but I can’t tell because her hair’s flying everywhere, and for a second, I get lost in the scent of it, lost in the memories of how the strands felt between my fingertips and on my chest, and I want nothing more in the entire fire-trucking world than to go back there, back to a place and time where we existed only for each other.

I sigh when her steps hasten and mine do the same. “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t care why you came to see me and I don’t know why I’m here, but the fact that you did and I am has to mean something. Doesn’t it?”

She pauses, just for a moment, before moving ahead, her steps faster than before.

“Stop,” I tell her, but I don’t dare touch her. “We need to talk about this.” As the words leave my mouth, the mistake like acid on my tongue, I freeze. So does she. Then she holds her hair behind her neck, and I see her eyes, bright behind the layer of tears. “Fuck.”

She starts to walk again, only now it’s slow, as if the thoughts in her head are preventing her pace. And again, I follow. Because I’d follow her to the end of the fucking earth, even when she’s pissed, if it meant being with her. Or being around her. Or just breathing the same damn air as her. We make it halfway up her porch steps, my mind racing, trying to find a way to say goodbye without saying goodbye. But then her front door opens and a guy wearing a Washington University Basketball jacket, a stupid C on the chest, steps out of the house, his glare directed at me.

Next to me, Becca covers her mouth with her hands. She looks from him, to her dad standing behind him, and then over at me. The air turns thick, the silence palpable, and the knives are back, stabbing my heart over and over and over.

I wish for death.

As stupid as it sounds, I almost beg for it.

Anything would be better than what I’m experiencing.

Her steps are rushed now, moving toward him, and he tears his glare away from me to look down at her. Her hands are moving between them, fingers switching positions, and his focus isn’t on her face like when I look at her, it’s on her hands.

“Okay,” he says, and she drops her arms to her sides, her shoulders relaxing with her exhale. Then she’s gone, past her dad and through her front door, closing it after her. This time, I don’t follow her, because she’s no longer mine to pursue. And as the knives twist and prod and poke at my battered heart, I look up at the guy whose hand is out, waiting for me to shake, and I succumb to the pain, to the loss, to the grief. “I’m Aaron,” he says. “You must be Josh.”

I shake his hand, my fingers numb caused by my dead, non-beating heart, and I murmur a “Hey.”

Before he can respond, the front door opens again and the cause of my grief walks through it. She’d changed into a dress that shows off the tanned legs and arms and curves I’ve craved. After going through her bag, she looks up at Aaron, her hands and fingers a blur as they move in front of him.

He nods.

Swear, I actually hear the clicking of the pieces in my head.

One by one.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She’s signing.

And he understands her.

“Becca wants me to tell you that it was good seeing you again, Josh,” Aaron says. “We’re running late, so we have to go. But she’s glad she got to catch up with you.”

Becca’s hands move again.

“She says to take care of yourself, and of Tommy.”

Becca waves a goodbye, her eyes blazing against the morning sun. But she’s not looking at me. She’s looking past me, hoping to find a way to make me and the entire situation disappear.

I stand and I watch, unwilling to say goodbye, as they walk down the steps and toward his car. He opens the door for her, and she settles into the seat, like it’s something they’ve done a thousand times before. She doesn’t look up. Not once in the time it takes him to close the door, make his way to the driver’s side, start the car, and drive away does she look at me.

“They met in group therapy…” Martin says from behind me, “that’s where they’re going now.”

I face him, but the racing of my mind and the lump in my throat prevent my thoughts from forming into words.

He steps closer, his arms crossed. “It’s a group for young adults who’ve overcome some form of tragedy. She says it helps her.”

I’m not exactly sure why he feels the need to tell me any of this but I take it in, as much as I physically and mentally can. “Is um… Aaron—is he deaf or…?”