And then I said, “So you won’t move for me, and I won’t move for you. I guess we’re at an impasse.” I couldn’t bring myself to say, I guess we’re breaking up. Not to the wild boy who loved me. Whose pet name for me was Special. Who lit up my heart in such glorious, vibrant, pulsating color.

“All right, then.” His eyes were shiny. I’d never seen him cry before, and I couldn’t now. I looked away. “I’ll wait for you, Sadie,” he said, his voice rough. “But not forever.”

“Same.” The lump in my throat was strangling me. I still couldn’t meet his eyes, and while I was staring out the window, he left.

At dinner that night, my mother asked, “Why isn’t Noah here?”

“We’re taking a break,” I answered, the words wooden and hard in my mouth. I drained my martini, even though I hated martinis, but it was what Zach had ordered the last time we’d all gone out, and . . . and God, I was so fucking unoriginal.

My dad squeezed my hand. “These things happen,” he said kindly. “Don’t worry, sugarplum.”

“Marriage is an outdated institution,” Mom said. Dad sighed and let go of my hand.

I cried so much that for the next month, there were salt deposits in my eyelashes. It felt like Noah had slammed the door on my pulsing heart. Why did I have to move? Why wouldn’t he even try living here? Why was there no compromise? What was this sexist bullshit?

And then I’d flip. Should I move home? What would happen to me if I did? Would I hate him for cutting my dreams short? How long was I going to try to be an artist in this vicious, competitive city? Was he right? Did I want five black-haired babies? The truth was, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t hate babies, but I didn’t stare at them or fawn over them like some of my friends.

He would wait, he’d said. Apparently in silence, because we didn’t talk to each other for a month.

Not many high school couples stay together, I rationalized. Not many twenty-two-year-old men really know what they want. Sure, I could marry Noah, and within a decade, we’d be stale and old and bitter, scratching to make ends meet in a town that catered to the wealthy. Our kids would grow up in the weighted gloom the way I had, tiptoeing around their parents’ disappointment in each other. We’d inevitably divorce, and those five kids and I would resent him. Or worse, they’d love him better. Who wouldn’t?

I’d picture his face, his wild beauty and curly hair, the rare smile with the power of the sun, and I’d cry again.