I close my eyes and try to go back there. I see him eating pizza. I don’t really remember what he said, only that he’s talking a lot. But I can’t remember being happy or annoyed or angry or anything. I just remember that I was there.

“Nothing,” I say, my eyes still closed. “You know when you’re really pissed at someone and then, a few days later, you remember that you were pissed but can’t remember what it was about? Well, this is the opposite of that.”

I open my eyes and see him taking in what I’m saying. I think I’m confirming something he’s always suspected.

“You really don’t know what it’s like for us, do you?” I say.

“No,” he answers quietly. “I don’t.”

He asks me about a few of the other things that happened yesterday—talking to Rebecca, the climbing, the dinner conversation with my parents. I tell him the only one that’s vivid to me is the climbing. I do feel something when I think of that—that sense of breathing in, of freedom. Is this emotion or is this actual physical sensation that I’m remembering? We can’t decide.

“It’s interesting,” I admit. “Really twisted and weird and crazy—but also interesting.”

“You are extraordinary for understanding, and for being willing to be with me even after I…was where I was.”

“It’s not your fault. I know.”

“Thank you.”

It’s hard to believe that I thought I could stay away from him. It’s hard to believe I thought I could run away from this. Because it feels so comfortable right now.

“Thank you for not messing up my life,” I say. “And for keeping my clothes on. Unless, of course, you don’t want me to remember that you sneaked a peek.”

“No peeks were sneaked.”

“I believe you. Amazingly, I believe you about everything.”

And because I believe him, I also want him to tell me more about what it was like for him—what he saw when he was me. But it also feels like a raging-ego thing to ask. What kind of girl asks for a second opinion about her own life?

A senses me holding back. Of course.

“What?” he asks.

I decide to go for it.

“It’s just—do you feel you know me more now? Because the weird thing is…I feel I know you more. Because of what you did, and what you didn’t do. Isn’t that strange? I would have thought that you would’ve found out more about me…but I’m not sure that’s true.”

“I got to meet your parents,” he says.

Oh boy. “And what was your impression?”

“I think they both care about you, in their own way.”

I laugh. “Well said.”

“Well, it was nice to meet them.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that when you really meet them. ‘Mom and Dad, this is A. You think you’re meeting him for the first time, but actually, you’ve met him before, when he was in my body.’ ”

“I’m sure that’ll go over well.”

And the stupid thing is: I’m sure they would love him. If only I could freeze him as he is, and take him home to Mom and Dad, they’d be thrilled.

But I can’t tell him that. It would be unfair of me to tell him that. So I ask him something else. Just to be sure.

“It can never happen again, right?” I say. “You’re never the same person twice.”

He nods. “Correct. It will never happen again.”

“No offense, but I’m relieved I don’t have to go to sleep wondering if I’m going to wake up with you in control. Once, I guess I can deal with. But don’t make a habit of it.”

“I promise—I want to make a habit of being with you, but not that way.”

He says it so casually, like it’s no big deal. Like I might not even hear it.

But I hear it.

“You’ve seen my life,” I say. “Tell me a way you think this can work.”

“We’ll find a way.”

“That’s not an answer,” I point out. “It’s a hope.”

“Hope’s gotten us this far. Not answers.”

“Good point.” I sip my coffee. “I know this is weird, but…I keep wondering. Are you really not a boy or a girl? I mean, when you were in my body, did you feel more…at home than you would in the body of a boy?”

“I’m just me,” he (she?) says. “I always feel at home and I never feel at home. That’s just the way it is.”

I don’t know why this isn’t enough for me—but it’s not. “And when you’re kissing someone?” I press.

“Same thing.”

“And during sex?”

“Is Dylan blushing? Right now, is he blushing?”

Bright red. “Yeah.”

“Good. Because I know I am.”

I don’t know why the word sex would make him blush so much. But then I realize why, and I blurt out, “You’ve never had—?”

He sputters. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to—”

“Never!”

He’s as red as a strawberry now. “I am so glad you find this funny,” he says.

“Sorry.”

“There was this one girl.”

Aha! “Really?”

“Yeah. Yesterday. When I was in your body. Don’t you remember? I think you might have gotten her pregnant.”

“That’s not funny!”

“I only have eyes for you,” he says. And the way he says it isn’t funny at all. Or teasing. Or careless.

Sincerity. I think that’s the word for this. For meaning something so much that it can’t be anything other than what it is.

I’m not used to it.

“A—” I start. I have to tell him. I have to keep us in the world of reality. And in the world of reality, we cannot be together.

“Not now,” he interrupts. “Let’s stay on the nice note.”

The nice note. That rings its own note within me. And that note is, momentarily, louder than reality.

“Okay,” I say. “I can do that.”

So instead of talking about tomorrow, we talk more about yesterday. I ask him what else he noticed, and he brings up all of these things that I would never, ever notice. Physical details like a small red birthmark at the base of my left thumb, and memories like this time Rebecca got gum caught in her hair. He’s also pretty committed to convincing me that my parents care about me. I tell him he must’ve gotten them on a good day. He doesn’t argue—but I can also see he doesn’t completely know what I mean. Because he’s never with someone through bad days and good days. He doesn’t know life like that. Which again reminds me how he’d never be equipped to deal with someone as bad-good as me.