I lie back down, and Beau’s arm wraps around me, his fingers soft on my shoulder. “I don’t know my birth parents,” I tell him. “I was adopted when I was eleven days old, and I’ve always lived here, but I don’t really know where home-home is.”

“I bet your mom was a doctor,” he says.

“Oh yeah? What makes you think that?”

“Same reason you knew I played football, probably.”

“My muscular body and worn-out T-shirt,” I say.

“Tell me you’re not going away to some fancy college to become a doctor or a lawyer or something like that,” he says.

“Actually, no,” I say.

He looks down the plane of his face at me. “So you’re staying here.”

“Well, no.” I’m unable to meet his eyes. “I am going away to some fancy college, but I think I’m going to study history.”

“History.” His thick eyebrows rise. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises.”

“Are you surprised by how boring my future sounds?”

“It was never my favorite subject,” he says.

“What was?”

“Probably gym,” he teases.

“Well, that was my second choice,” I say. “I’m just not sure Brown offers degrees in classes that are named for the room they take place in.”

“Their loss.” He sits up enough to take another sip of beer.

“Really, though, Beau. Gym?”

His eyes scan the starry sky. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe woodshop.”

I consider pointing out that’s another class named after its location. Instead I watch his breath raise and lower his chest slowly and imagine his hands working over wood with the same tenderness and exhilaration with which they traveled across the piano that night in the band room. Of course it makes perfect sense that the same hands that pulled those notes from those keys could make beautiful objects too. Physical incarnations of his music. His serious eyes slide down to mine. “Really, though, Natalie,” he imitates me. “History?”

“History,” I confirm. “That, or women’s studies.”

“Women’s studies. Is that, like . . .” He hesitates, then sort of shrugs and shakes his head like he can’t even come up with one guess as to what that might mean. “Gynecology?”

I stare at him, trying to judge how serious he is, until he cracks a smile. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Natalie,” he says, “I wasn’t much of a reader in school, and I would’ve failed history the second time I took it, except my teacher didn’t want me gettin’ suspended from the football team. But, yes, I’ve heard of women’s studies.”

“So you’re at least as familiar as I am with woodshop.”

“I am.” He nods. “So why history or women’s studies?”

“I like understanding how things fit together: who influenced whom, how one event affects another or how one little thing can change everything. I guess I feel like . . .” I hesitate, trying to put into words an amorphous thought I’ve had a million times since Grandmother left but have never said aloud. “I guess I feel like someone forgot to write down my beginning, and I just showed up in the middle of things, in time for this.” I hold my arms up in the sticky night air as if hugging the sky. “And I don’t really get what I’m supposed to do with the present because I can’t see the whole picture. But until I can figure out my own place in all of this, I want to hear other people’s stories. Knowing stories that have been around forever and have almost been lost a hundred times already, it feels important.”

After a beat of silence he says, “I do remember one story from history.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“When they tested the atomic bomb and it worked,” he begins, “everyone involved knew the world would never be the same. One of the guys who invented it said, ‘I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.’”

“I can’t imagine how that must have felt.” I roll onto my side to look at him, and his eyes are still fixated on the stars, thoughts hiding behind the wrinkles in his forehead. “So tell me this: How does someone who wasn’t much of a reader remember a verbatim quote from the inventor of the atomic bomb?”

“Oh, I’m real good at watching movies.” Once again, he grins and it’s contagious, and even though my cheeks are starting to ache, I can’t make them relax.

“Really now?”

He nods. “Yeah, coulda gone pro.”

“So what you’re really saying is you’re a good listener.”

“Oh yeah, Natalie Cleary,” he says soberly. “The best.”

“Now you’re just trying to impress me.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But it’s true. Tell me one of your stories.”

“And afterward you’ll be able to quote it?” I challenge.

“If you’re any good,” he says, only breaking into a smile when I scoff. He reaches over to flip my hair back over my shoulder then slowly kisses the side of my neck. A wave of warmth and tingles passes through me, like Beau’s mouth is the moon pulling tides through my veins.

“What kind of story do you want to hear?” I say, quietly, to hide the shake in my voice.

“Somethin’ happy,” he says.

10

There’ve been plenty of stories Grandmother’s called “happy,” but there’s only one I remember actually making me feel happy. I was ten and I’d woken up from a nightmare to find Grandmother in my room.

“Why are you crying, honey?” she asked, and I told her about the dream. It was one of the recurring ones, where I’m in the car with Mom, talking and laughing as she drives us through the countryside. In the nightmare, it’s bright outside and the sky is pale blue and cloudless, the creeks lining the road sparkling. But suddenly, a dark orb appears ahead, rising up over us and flinging us sideways off the road. We spin across a ditch, the front of the car smashing into a thick tree, and the world goes dark, as thunder breaks the sky, sending rain pouring over us. Gradually, the car begins to fill, not with water but with blood, though neither Mom nor I is cut. I’d never told anyone about the dream before. I was too afraid it would come true, but telling Grandmother felt different.