Maybe it was the intense lovemaking, the intense emotions of the day, but something in me breaks loose, and I start crying from one second to the next.

He moans as if it pains him to see me cry and I bury my face in the nook of his arm, feeling him squeeze me. “You’ll be okay,” he promises, his lips buried in my hair and moving against my scalp.

“Yes,” I say, nodding, amazed by how much I needed to cry, how much I am not trying to stop crying because it just feels right to cry in his arms.

I didn’t bring tissues and just when I start to try to dry my face, he holds me by the jaw and licks up my tears, even the ones that trickled down my neck.

I clutch his hair and kiss the top of his head as his warm tongue laps me up, turning my feelings back to desire rather than loss, love rather than grief.

“Are you really going back tomorrow?” I ask him.

“I have to.”

I swallow. “Would you mind if I stayed a few days? I just want to support Mom and Dad.”

“Take as long as you need.”

“I will. Not too long. Otherwise it’ll be time for me to get back here again,” I say.

The thought of the end of my internship and my time in Chicago feels a bit like a mood killer. The thought of a ticking clock on my time with Callan is also an aphrodisiac, and I’m determined to binge on him before I leave, just like I can tell—by the way he starts kissing me and ravaging my body hungrily—that he’s determined to binge on me, too.

I visit Nana at the cemetery every day for the next few days. I am mad and sad and guilty and more. “I always thought I would be able to talk to you when I fell in love, Nana. Now what do I do?”

The next day I ask her, “Should I tell him I love him?”

The last day, “If I should tell him I love him, send me a sign.”

I hear rustling behind me, glance up at a tall oak to spot two squirrels fucking.

“What is that supposed to mean? Really, Nana!”

I’m mad again as I pack my bags, then I just want Chicago. It’s not that I love the city any more than I love Texas, but it’s what’s in it that I crave most.

Strange how homesick I was for Chicago. I hadn’t realized how much until I’m back and feel the warm wind in my face when I step out of the cab and I walk into my apartment building. I hadn’t told anyone I was on my way back. I even booked a ticket on a commercial airline and flew—on my own. I vomited only on takeoff and landing. I call that a small victory.

He’s the first one I call. I get voicemail, so I leave a message.

“Hey. I’m back. Just wanted to say hello. Call me later.”

He immediately texts me.

In NY

meeting

couldn’t pick up.

Back around 2 a.m.

When are you getting in?

I’m in! Left you a message. Though I’m probably turning in earlier than 2 tonight. I might be too tired to hear the door. See you tomorrow?

Looking forward to tomorrow

Miss Roth

Oh, Mr. Carmichael, you know, so am I.

I’m smiling when I lower my phone, but my smile soon fades when I think of how soon I’ll be leaving again for good.

Wynn’s the second one I call, because she left a thousand and one messages on my phone, apologizing for not being able to come to the funeral. The moment I tell her I’m in town, she tells me she’s coming over.

They say good friends never ask if they can come over, they just do.

It makes me happy to have found one in Wynn.

“Sorry about your grandma,” she says the moment she steps into my apartment and gives me a huge hug. “I had a gallery opening of a new artist, I couldn’t get away, everything was falling apart. My thoughts and prayers were with you. Are you okay?” she says as she pulls back to study me.

“Yes. And you?”

“Okay.”

“You look pretty. Where are you going?” I ask, eyeing her soft blue strapless dress.

“To have dinner at Emmett’s restaurant,” she confides.

“Oh! Did he finally—”

“Oh no! He doesn’t know I’m coming.” She grins, but her eyes look sad. “Maybe he’ll join me. Maybe he’ll just see me and . . . I don’t know. We can finally talk things out.”

“You’re not going alone.” Before she can protest, I head into my closet to change into a swirly black skirt and a black top. I still don’t feel like wearing colors, even though I know Nana would want me to.

Thirty minutes later, Wynn and I are at Emmett’s newest haute-cuisine restaurant, called Pear. I’m so famished, I could lick my plates dry—the food is phenomenal—but Wynn hardly takes a bite. She keeps glancing around the restaurant. My heart hurts for her because she’s trying not to make it seem like she’s looking around.

We ask for the check, and there’s still no sight of Emmett. The waiter sets it down on the table and says, “The tab is taken care of.”

“I . . . oh, well thanks,” Wynn says, breathless. “Can I say thank you to the chef?”

“He’s terribly busy.” Obviously the fact that he doesn’t even hesitate means he was already given instructions not to allow this to happen.

My heart now aches for Wynn, but Wynn won’t have it.

Her eyebrows crease into an angry little frown as she signals at the spot where her plate had been resting minutes ago. “Well, see, I wanted to complain about the undercooked duck.”

I widen my eyes and barely keep from saying, You hardly ate the duck, and it was so good!

“I’m sorry, miss. I’d be happy to take your complaints to him.”