“But what about what you need?” Chris opened the oven door and looked at the bread.

“I don’t fucking need anybody,” I said angrily.

“You know what, dude? I am too damn tired to argue with you.” He closed the oven and stood up. “Now where do we keep the spoons?”

I stayed at their house a couple hours before heading home, and even though I had fun with the kids and Nina was grateful for the nap, I was still in a shitty mood. All I could think of was Meg. I fucking missed her, and it was killing me to think that she was still here and I couldn’t be with her.

I felt like I needed to keep my hands busy, so I tackled some projects around the house—the slow shower drain upstairs, paint touch-ups on the front and back doors, laundry, the kitchen floor, vacuuming up dog hair. The entire time, I wondered how the wedding was going, what Meg looked like in her dress the color of cinnamon, whether she wore her hair up or down, whether she was having a good time or was miserable like me. Was there an empty chair next to her? Would she get mad every time she saw it? Would anyone ask her to dance?

I felt like punching him, whoever he was.

Around six, I ordered a pizza, and when it arrived, I sat in front of the TV with a beer again. Scrolling through channels, I happened to stumble upon an episode of Law & Order, and I nearly smashed the remote to bits. Instead I moved on, trying to find something that suited my mood and didn’t remind me of Meg.

Eventually I switched the TV off and leaned back on the couch. Renzo got off the floor where he’d been lying, picked up a toy and hopefully came over to nudge my legs, but I didn’t feel like playing. “Sorry, buddy. Not now.”

I hadn’t felt this shitty since my dad died. I felt like I was losing Meg too. Did she hate me? Would she ever forgive me? Was I ever going to see her again? There was only one other time I could remember asking myself that question—right before I left for boot camp. I recalled how she came over with cookies and a letter.

Without thinking, I got off the couch and went upstairs, Renzo on my heels. In my bedroom, I opened the closet door and reached for an old shoebox I kept on the top shelf. It was dusty and beat-up, and the corners had been taped together several times. But inside, the contents remained the same. Some old photos, awards and certificates I’d saved from school, family letters I’d saved from when I was deployed.

I found her letter toward the bottom, still in its plain white envelope. On the front she’d handwritten my name in blue ink, and beneath it in all caps, it said DO NOT READ UNTIL AFTER YOU LEAVE.

I pulled the letter out, sat down on my bed, and unfolded it. Immediately the photo she’d tucked inside fell into my lap. I held it up and looked at it.

Jesus. We were so young.

Someone had taken it at her graduation party, and we stood side by side, Meg in a white dress and me in a shirt and tie, because my mother had made me wear one. I look tall and gangly, and my hair, which I wore a little longer back then, had a stupid cowlick that never behaved. I have an arm around Meg, who looks beautiful, and she has both of hers around my waist, her hands clasped above my hip. We are both smiling.

I flipped it over. On the back, she’d written, So you don’t forget what I look like haha.

Setting the photo aside, I picked up the letter. I probably hadn’t read it in fifteen years, but once upon a time I’d practically known it by heart.

Dear Noah,

I can’t believe you are leaving tomorrow!! I am going to miss you so much. It will be weird not to be able to hang around with you this summer, or call you when I have a problem I need you to fix haha.

Seriously, you are like the best friend ever, and I don’t know what I will do without you. The past two years have been so much fun, and then there is that whole situation where YOU SAVED MY LIFE! I am so thankful you were there that day at the beach. I always will be.

Even though I am sad you are leaving, I understand why you want to go and I am SO proud of you. I will think of you every single day and pray that you do not have to go to Iraq. But even if you do, I know you will be safe because you are the bravest guy I know.

Don’t forget me! I love you like a brother, Noah. Thanks for being so sweet to me. You’ll always be my hero.

Love,

Meg Sawyer

I read it over several times, and the emotions I’d felt reading it for the first time hit me all over again. My throat tightened up. My chest hurt. I remembered feeling confused, torn between being sad I’d never even tried to kiss her and glad she thought so highly of me.

For a hot second, I’d thought about driving over to her house and kissing her goodbye just in case I never got another chance. I had no idea where in the world I was going to end up—Iraq was a pretty good guess—but even if I didn’t get blown up by an IED, I sensed instinctively that she’d have a boyfriend at college pretty quick. She was going to Harvard, for fuck’s sake. The guys there were going to be smart enough to see how amazing she was.

But I hadn’t gone. I always wanted her to think of me as her hero, and I couldn’t risk fucking that up.

Like I’d done this week.

“Christ, I was smarter at eighteen than I am now,” I muttered, carefully folding the letter again and tucking it and the photo back inside the envelope.

As I placed the shoebox back on the shelf, I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door. I turned to face myself.

I didn’t like what I saw.

I tried squaring my shoulders. Lifting my chin. Sucking in my stomach. But it was no use. The same asshole stared back at me.

Angrily, I slammed the closet door and got ready for bed, even though it wasn’t even nine. I just wanted this fucking day to end.

But I couldn’t sleep.

I tossed and turned and cursed and fretted and kept checking the time. Nine o’clock. Ten o’clock. Eleven.

Christ almighty, I was exhausted. Why the fuck couldn’t I sleep?

Because you owe her an apology, you jackass, said a voice in my head. You treated her like shit today, and she’s going to get on a plane tomorrow and hate you forever if you say nothing.

But wasn’t that better? Why shouldn’t she hate me? I hated myself.

You used to be this girl’s hero. She thought you were brave. Now you can’t even get out of bed and go say you’re sorry? Your dad would be ashamed of you.

“Okay, okay. Just shut the fuck up,” I grumbled to the voice, throwing the covers off. “I’ll get out of bed, I’ll go say I’m sorry, I’ll try again to explain why it’s better if she doesn’t stay here, but just shut the fuck up.”

I glanced at my suit hanging in the closet, the one I’d planned to wear tonight, but ended up throwing on a pair of jeans and an army-green button down shirt. As I rolled up the sleeves, I checked my reflection again and wished I would have shaved today, but it was too late now.

I threw on a cap, grabbed my keys, and headed out. I had one goal—get her to forgive me.

Forgive me and leave.

Then I could sleep again.

Twenty-Six

Meg

Frannie’s wedding was beautiful.

The entire farm was transformed. In the orchard where the ceremony took place, lanterns hung from the trees and candles lined the aisle. Garlands of autumn leaves were draped along the backs of chairs. The air smelled like hot apple cider and cinnamon.