Stay -2005- -

He hugs you. It’s clumsy. His chin digs into your shoulder. He smells like gasoline and laundry detergent and something else—something that’s just him . You close your eyes and memorize it. The way his heart beats against your ribs. The way his fingers press into the small of your back.

Cole shrugs, that easy, infuriating shrug. “Start of senior year. My dad got the transfer. Phoenix.”

The Razr vibrates.

Later, you go up to your room. You have a blue portable CD player, and you put on the mix CD he made you last summer. Track four is “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” Track seven is “Since U Been Gone.” You lie on your bed and hold the folded paper over your heart. Stay -2005-

He reverses out of the driveway. The gravel spits. He gives you one last look through the rear window. A half-smile. Then he turns the corner, and the taillights disappear into the bruised-purple dusk.

But he doesn’t.

He gets in the Jeep. The engine coughs to life. For a second, he just sits there, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. You think maybe—maybe—he’ll cut the ignition. Maybe he’ll get out. Maybe he’ll say You’re right. Stay. He hugs you

You look at the house. At the dented mailbox. At the porch light that’s been flickering since you were both twelve. Stay , you want to say. Just stay. We can figure it out. We can sleep in my basement. We can get jobs at the mall. We can—

“You better.”

“I’ll call,” he says.

“You’re really leaving?” you ask, even though you know the answer. The U-Haul is already half-packed. A futon mattress leans against a cardboard box marked KITCHEN – FRAGILE .

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

“Yeah. That’s the point.” He kicks a loose pebble. It skitters under the U-Haul. “No memories there.” He smells like gasoline and laundry detergent and