She says this like she’s kidding, but she has no idea how right she is.

“Oh!” She turns toward the living room and retrieves the tent from the couch. “Help me set up the tent before we go.” She walks toward her bedroom with the tent in her hands. “It’s tiny, it won’t take long.”

I shake my head, completely confused as to why she wants to set up a tent in her bedroom. But she doesn’t seem bothered by it, so I don’t question her. Because what girl doesn’t deserve a tent in her bedroom?

“I want it over here.” She points to a spot close to her bed as she kicks a yoga mat out of the way. I look around her room, trying to see what I can figure out about her without having to ask questions. There aren’t any pictures on her walls or her dresser, and her closet door is shut. It’s like she decided one day that she was leaving Portland and she didn’t bring a single thing with her when she came. I wonder why that is? Is this not a permanent move for her?

I help her unpack the tent. I didn’t notice at the store, but it really is a small tent. It fits two people and has an optional divider down the middle of it. We have it set up in less than five minutes, but simply setting it up isn’t good enough for her, apparently. She walks to her closet and grabs two blankets that are on the top shelf. She lays them down in the tent and crawls inside.

“Grab two pillows off my bed,” she says. “We have to lie in it for a few minutes before we leave.”

I grab the pillows and kneel down in front of the tent. I push them inside and she takes them from me. I pull the flap back and crawl in with her, but I go to my side instead of doing what I really want to do, which is crawl on top of her.

I’m too big for the tent and my feet hang out of it, but so do hers.

“I think you bought a tent for fictional characters.”

She shakes her head and lifts up onto her elbow. “I didn’t buy it; you bought it. And it’s a kid tent, Owen. Of course we don’t fit.”

Her eyes move to the zipper hanging from the top of the tent. “Look.” She grabs it and begins zipping. A net lowers from the top and she continues to zip up the sides of it until a mesh screen separates us. She lays her head on her arm and smiles at me. “Feels like we’re in a confessional.”

I roll onto my side and rest my head in my hand and stare back at her. “Which one of us is confessing?”

She narrows her eyes and lifts her finger, pointing at me. “I think it’s safe to say you owe the world a few more confessions of your own.”

I lift my hand and touch her finger through the mesh. She opens up her palm and presses it against mine. “We could be here all night, Auburn. I have a lot of confessions.”

I could tell her how I know her. Make her realize why I have this overwhelming urge to protect her. But some secrets I’ll take to my grave, and this is definitely one of them.

Instead, I give her a different confession. One that doesn’t mean as much to me. I give her something safe. “I have three numbers in my phone. My father’s. Harrison’s. My cousin Riley’s, but I haven’t talked to him in over six months. That’s it.”

She’s quiet. She doesn’t know what to say, because who only has three numbers in his phone? Someone who has issues, obviously.

“Why don’t you have more phone numbers?”

I like her eyes. They’re very telling, and right now she hurts for me, because she realizes that she isn’t the only lonely person in Dallas.

“After I graduated high school, I kind of went my own way. I focused on my art and nothing else. I lost all my old contacts when I switched phones about a year ago, and when that happened, I realized I didn’t really talk to anyone. My grandparents passed away years ago. I only have one cousin, and like I said, we don’t really talk much. Other than Harrison and my father, there isn’t a phone number I need.”

Her fingers are tracing my palm now. She’s staring at her hands and no longer at me. “Let me see your phone.”

I pull it out of my pocket and hand it to her beneath the mesh, because I told her the truth. She can check for herself. Three numbers and that’s it.

Her fingers move over the screen for several seconds before she hands me back my phone. “There. Now you have four.”

I look down at my screen and read her contact. I laugh when I see the name she entered for herself.

Auburn Mason-is-the-best-middle-name Reed.

I slide my phone back in my pocket and touch her hand against the mesh again. “Your turn,” I say to her.

She shakes her head. “You still have a lot of catching up to do. Keep going.”

I sigh and roll onto my back. I don’t want to tell her anything else yet, but I’m scared if we don’t get out of this tent soon, I’ll tell her everything I know and everything she doesn’t want to hear. But maybe it’s best that way. Maybe if I tell her the truth, she can accept it and trust me and know that as soon as I get back, things will be different. Maybe if I tell her the truth, we’ll have a chance of making it beyond Monday.

“That night I didn’t show up here?” I pause, because my heart is beating so fast I’m finding it hard to think around it. I know I need to admit this to her, but I haven’t known how to bring it up. No matter how I spin it, I know she’ll react negatively, and I get that. But I’m tired of not being honest with her.

I roll onto my side and face her. I open my mouth to confess, but I’m spared by the knock on her front door.