I’ve already made up my mind. Still, how do you pull away from someone you love this much when you know it’s probably the last kiss you’ll ever share? And when it deepens, and one of her hands slides under my shirt, I know that I don’t have a choice. Open house or not, I’m tempted to have just one more time with Madison in this bed, for old times’ sake. But then I’ll chicken out.

So, I break away from her mouth to lock eyes with her. It’s the least I can do, not turn away from her, as I’ve been doing all these months. “You’ve been a hundred feet away from me all summer and I’ve made no effort. It’s only going to get worse and I can’t deal with that guilt, on top of everything else. I just . . .” I swallow the lump but it won’t budge. My eyes begin to burn as I force out in a whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Whatever restraint she held onto before breaks down and a torrent of tears releases. “Please. I can’t lose you, too,” she gets out between the sobs.

Can’t she see it?

She already has lost me.

■ ■ ■

My mom leans into my car window. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive out with you? I can fly back.”

“I’m good, Mom.” I test the feel of the steering wheel under my fingertips. My Honda Accord. The car that Sasha would have been driving that night, had I not swapped for my dad’s monstrous SUV. It would have caused considerably less damage to the Cleary family’s car. Maybe more of them would have survived.

Maybe I wouldn’t have.

I’ve sat in a car only a dozen times this summer, and on only a handful of occasions have I been behind the wheel. Never for more than a twenty-minute drive. Now I’m about to get on the road for almost six hours. I’m “moving on.”

“Okay, well . . . do you have everything?” Mom’s eyes drift to the backseat, where the cooler of ready-made meals that she spent the last week preparing sits. I haven’t exactly been eating well these past few months and she doesn’t trust that I’ll miraculously begin taking care of myself once I’m back in Lansing. Probably a safe bet.

“I’m good, Mom.”

“How long before your new roommate gets there?”

“Next week.” Derek’s cousin, Rich, is coming back to Michigan State for his graduate degree. He texted me a few weeks ago, looking to rent Sasha’s room. It took me eight days to respond but, in the end, I agreed to let him move in. I’m still not sure if that was a good idea, if having a complete stranger might not be better, but at least I won’t be alone.

“Well, that’s good. That’ll give you some quiet time while you finish those exams. And take it easy with football practice.”

“Yup.” I avert my eyes. She’s always been able to read a lie in them.

She leans in to give me a kiss on the forehead. “Call me when you get there.” A pause and then, “Things will work out between you and Madison. Don’t you worry.”

My eyes drift to the “Sold” sticker crossing the sign on their front lawn. The Danielses’ house sold in two days. Twenty-day closing. A bit fast, but I guess they just really want to get away. The next time I’m back here, a new family will have settled in nicely.

Mom steps back, giving my dad some room to maneuver his way in. He actually rescheduled his morning meetings to be here when I left. I haven’t decided whether I think it’s because he wants to say goodbye or because he doesn’t believe I’ll actually leave.

“You’re doing the right thing, Cole. Heading back there, picking your life up again. You need to do this.” With a pat on my shoulder, he steps back, sliding his hands into the pockets of his dress pants.

I pull away, the reflection of those two houses standing side-by-side in my rearview mirror.

The memory of children’s laughter a hollow echo in my ears.

■ ■ ■

Almost four months vacant. I’m actually surprised no one broke into the apartment.

I let my duffel bag slide off my good shoulder. It hits the kitchen tile with a thud that echoes through the space. At eleven hundred square feet, it’s a decent-sized place for two college guys. Right now, it feels too big.

Too empty.

We lucked out, grabbing the lease on the apartment from one of the seniors on our football team. We’re ten minutes from campus and above a popular neighborhood pub. We’ve never minded the noise. The day Sasha and I picked up the keys, two years ago now, we weren’t here for more than four hours before we threw a house-warming party. The night ended with noise complaints from neighboring houses and cops at our door, but luckily, no underage drinking charges.

Last year, the party was twice as big.

When my phone rings, I answer it without looking at the screen, expecting my mom. She has already called me three times on the way here.

“Did you make it?”

My heart starts racing at the sound of his voice. Then I put two and two together. “Rich?” I forgot that he sounds so much like Derek.

“Yeah, man! Listen, I was hoping to get the key off you tonight. Maybe we can grab a drink downstairs.”

“Tonight?” I haven’t seen Rich since the night of the accident. I also haven’t touched a beer. I’m not ready for this. “Sure.”

“’Kay. See you soon.” I hang up the phone, the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach growing.

Hauling the rest of my things in takes no more than fifteen minutes and I’m left wandering the space, the emptiness screaming out so loud I can barely hear myself think. That’s when I find myself standing over the big brown box that Susan Daniels gave me, small switchblade in hand. I’ve been staring at that box for over a week now, afraid to open it.

I slice open the clear tape that seals the contents—knowing I’ll find as much of my childhood as Sasha’s inside. A mishmash of things that I recognize well: A never-worn Notre Dame jersey that Sasha bought nine years ago, when Cyril and my dad took us down to a game. Ironic that we ended up playing for one of their rival teams. A well-used Nintendo game box with every version of Halo ever made. I kicked Sasha’s ass in every single one of them. He had to replace the controllers twice after whipping them against the wall in anger. A binder with his baseball card collection, including his prized Mickey Mantle card.

Beneath a bunch of ticket stubs from games and concerts that we had seen together—it’s not so much that Sasha was a nostalgic guy as he just got into the habit of tossing those into his sock drawer—is a folded piece of paper.

When I open it up and find the four lines in a child’s large print staring back at me, a chill rushes through me. I haven’t seen this in years. Sasha, Derek, and I wrote the friendship pact in second grade, after I got pissed off at Sasha for lying about a doctor’s appointment and ditching me to play with Derek. We didn’t talk to each other for four days. An eternity, back then. When we finally made amends—thanks to the intervention of our mothers, who were tired of seeing their sons moping around every night after school—we made the pact.

Friends and brothers forever.

We will never lie to each other.

Your stuff is my stuff and my stuff is your stuff.

We will never leave a man behind.

Slightly dramatic, especially for three seven-year-olds. The words blur behind my unshed tears but I’m chuckling. That last line must have had something to do with the G.I. Joe comics we were obsessed with. The three brown stains on the bottom, where we jabbed ourselves with Susan’s sewing needle and signed with our bloody fingerprints, added a nice touch.

The page slips from my fingers and floats down to land soundlessly in the box. I kick the box once, sending it sliding across the floor. And then I fall back onto the mattress, a wave of bitterness coursing through my veins.

I don’t know if Sasha ever lied to me in the fourteen years in between, but I know he lied to me again three months ago, when he said he was fine to drive. When he held his hand out. I trusted him and he lied.

And they both sure as hell left me behind.

There’s a loud knock against the front door. I contemplate not answering it, but it’s probably Rich. At least I hope it’s Rich. As much as I’m not ready for him, I’m definitely not ready to deal with any surprise guests.

The sight of him standing on my doorstep knocks the air out of my lungs.

“Hey.” He bites his bottom lip as he holds out a hand, as if he’s as uneasy about this reunion as I am.

When I offer him my right hand, he shakes it for one, two, three seconds, before I see a decision flicker through his eyes and he pulls me into him in a hug. “Good to see you again, man,” he says, his voice suddenly husky.

I swallow against the flood of emotions that hits me and simply nod, backing up to give him some room.

He doesn’t enter, though, his gaze drifting down the long hall. He came here with Derek before. It must be weird for him too. “How about we grab that drink? Looks like a happening Friday night downstairs.”

I grab my keys from the hook by the door and follow him out without a word.

■ ■ ■

It took five pints for Rich to bring the accident up after mindless babble about everything but that night. “I still can’t believe it happened. I had no idea you guys were heading out. If I had known, I would have stopped you. I swear.”

I imagine that’s the standard response anyone would give after hosting a party where a guest leaves drunk and kills five people plus himself. I could answer with, “If I had known Sasha was drunk, I wouldn’t have given him the keys,” but that sounds like an excuse. There are no excuses. So, I simply nod and take another long haul of my beer. I thought I was going to puke on the first one but, after choking it down, the rest have gone down too easy.

“I miss him. We had some good laughs growing up, me and Derek. Even though he was two years younger than me.” Rich’s blue eyes survey the young crowd, I’m guessing mainly students who decided to stay around and take summer classes. I recognize one or two faces but I avoid eye contact. Judging by their frequent glances over, they know who I am. “It sure stirred up a shit storm in our family. It’s been radio silence between my mom and my aunt for months now. She wanted to sue me for hosting the party. Luckily my uncle talked her out of that. I know she’s just angry and hurt. Suing me isn’t going to change anything.”

“Yeah, it’s crazy what people will do when they’re grieving.” Though my parents haven’t said too much, I know that the parents of Billy, Kacey’s boyfriend, are still looking to sue my dad for more money and my dad’s looking to avoid that mess by settling out of court.

He waves down the waitress for another drink as he sets his beer down. “How are Sasha’s parents doing? And your girlfriend?”

“They seem to be moving on. Madison and I are . . . taking a break.” When I saw Madison loading her suitcase in her car, I went out to say goodbye. She crumbled in my arms all over again.

“Shit. How are you with that? With all of this?” I feel his gaze on me as I swish my beer around in my glass.

“You know.” No. He doesn’t. No one does, really.

“Well, I can tell you one thing for sure: it was one hell of a wake-up call for a lot of people around here. The newspapers were all over that story. Hey, what ever happened to that girl? The one who made it out?”

I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “She’s alive, the last I heard, but that’s all I know. She won’t let anyone near her.”

“Yeah, that must have f**ked her up bad. I saw the pictures of the car.” He clears his throat roughly.

We shift back into idle chatter as a few of Rich’s old friends swing by. Guys I don’t know, who don’t know me, thankfully. They’re football junkies. We talk about the coming NFL season and some dumb trades made by franchises. Nothing important. I mostly sit and listen, not interested in participating but less interested in sitting in my apartment alone. Though I’m beginning to hope that Rich will crash here tonight, seeing as he’s going beer-for-beer with me.

Funny. I never really noticed that kind of thing before.

When the girl that Rich has been seeing shows up with her friend, I give them an obligatory smile and shift over in the booth to make room. By their infectious giggles and the way the girl mauls Rich’s face, I’d say they’ve been enjoying a few drinks somewhere else tonight.

“Hey, I’m Monika.” Sparkly-painted nails catch my eye as she holds out her hand. “Cole.”

She bats her lashes as she tests my name out on her tongue. “Cole . . . I like that name.”

That makes one of us.

“Do you go to school here?”

“Does he go to school here? Don’t you know this is Cole Reynolds, tight end for the Spartans?” Rich bellows, his girlfriend now perched on his lap.

Not anymore. “Shut it.” I manage a half-smile as I toss a coaster at him. But I’m also holding my breath, waiting for this girl to recognize my name, to bring the accident up.