There is no reason for us not to work.

We are textbook perfect together.

And we have grown bored.

Whatever magic there was in the beginning has been fizzling away, like a slow leak in a tire after it has taken a nail. You could go on for months without knowing something’s wrong, until one day you end up stranded on the side of the road with a flat.

At least, that’s what I’ve heard about slow leaks in tires. I’ve never actually experienced one. I don’t even have my license. But I do have to face facts—the enamored “Calla and Corey” who posed for the camera on that pile of rocks last year took a long, sharp nail somewhere along the way, likely before Stephanie Dupont ever came into the picture.

It’s the only reason I can come up with for why seeing Corey flirting with another girl didn’t gut me, and why I wasn’t more than mildly irritated that he couldn’t make time for me after the day I’d had. And why I didn’t bother trying to phone him after learning of my father’s illness, in the small hope that he might answer and give me comfort in the sound of his voice.

I think, buried deep down somewhere, I already sensed that our relationship was evaporating. I just hadn’t admitted it to myself yet. Maybe because I was hoping it wasn’t true. Or, more likely, because once I did acknowledge reality, I’d feel like I would have to do something about it. And what if Corey didn’t feel the same way I felt? What if he thought everything was perfect between us, and begged me not to end things?

What if I hurt him?

All unconscious worries simmering beneath the surface. All reasons to avoid confronting him. At least, reasons for me, a girl who is acutely allergic to confrontation. It’s my one defining “Wren quality,” my mom has said. My dad is ninja-level at avoiding conflict and, well . . . apple and tree, apparently, even if I landed fifty-five hundred kilometers away.

Sure, I can throw a verbal jab like the best of them when you push me far enough, but when it comes to truly facing someone or something that pains me, I run from my own shadow. But I’d run out of places to hide, the truth now glaringly obvious. I couldn’t imagine flying off to Alaska to meet my dad with this on my mind. So I sent a text to Corey on Friday night, mentioning the trip and how I thought maybe it would be better for us if we took a break, with all he had going on at work “and stuff.”

His response? Yeah, I was thinking the same. Take care of yourself. Safe flight. It’s like he was waiting for an out. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. He dances around sticky situations with the best of them. The best being me.

And thus, the official end to my fourteen-month relationship.

Via text, minimal confrontation achieved.

Mom eases off my bed. “It’s late, Calla. You need to get some sleep.”

“I know. I’m just gonna grab a shower first.”

She reaches for me and gives me a tight hug that lasts several beats too long.

“Oh my God, I’ll be back next Sunday!” I laugh, squeezing her slender frame back just as hard. “What are you going to be like when I move out?”

She peels away to stroke the long strands of my hair off my face, blinking against her glossy eyes. “Simon and I have discussed it and you’re never moving out. We’ve begun building a dungeon for you downstairs.”

“Next to his secret money vault, I hope.”

“Across from it. I’ll remove your collar when it’s time for our shows.”

“Or you could just put a TV in my dungeon.”

She mock-gasps. “Why didn’t I think of that! We wouldn’t have to listen to Simon’s whining in the background.” Simon detests our mutual love of cheesy reality TV and violent Viking shows, and he can’t help but pass through the living room while we’re watching, sometimes dropping witty but mostly annoying commentary.

Finally releasing me, she moves languidly to the doorway. She lingers, though, studying me as I kneel on top of the second stuffed suitcase and tug at the zipper. “You should probably bring a book or two.”

“You meant MacBook, right?” I can’t get past a chapter in a book without falling asleep and she knows it.

“I figured as much.” A pause. “I hope they have internet there.”

“Oh my God, you’re kidding, right?” Panic hits me as my mind begins to spin with the possibility that they don’t. I spent a long weekend at a cottage near Algonquin Park once and had to drive fifteen minutes up the road to get enough bars on my phone to retrieve my texts. It was hell. But no . . . “Agnes answered her emails right away. They totally have internet,” I say with certainty.

Mom shrugs. “Just . . . prepare yourself. Life out there is different. Harder. And yet simpler, if that makes any sense.” A nostalgic smile touches her lips. “You know, your dad used to try and get me to play checkers. Every single night he’d ask, even though he knew I hate board games. Used to annoy the hell out of me.” She frowns. “I wonder if he still plays.”

“Kind of hoping he doesn’t.”

“You’re going to be bored out of your mind within a day and looking for things to do,” she warns.

“I’m sure I’ll be hanging out at the airport a bit.” I heave the second suitcase to its wheels. “You know . . . watching planes crash.”