“That’s what the full moon in April is called.”

“They have names?” I asked. What a cute idea.

“Yep.”

“What’s March’s full moon called?”

“The worm moon.”

“Really? Poor March. What about May?”

“Flower moon.” He glanced at me.

“Are you making this up?”

He grinned. “Nope. Just a Farmers’ Almanac geek.”

I took a sip of beer, too. The peepers were so shrill and sweet. I’d forgotten that sound. “How are you, Noah? Are you happy?”

“Sure.”

“Did fatherhood do that for you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“It’s nice, seeing you with a baby. You look like a natural.”

He didn’t answer for a minute. “I always thought we’d have kids together.”

There it was.

“Me too,” I whispered, then cleared my throat. “Yeah. Me too. Life is funny that way.”

“Are you happy, Sadie?”

Earlier that evening, I had been. But right now, sitting next to my first love, the song of the little frogs in the background, the gurgle of the tidal river and the almost-full moon rising, all I felt was the sorrow of what could have been. The fullness and heft of it.

My eyes were wet, and I was grateful for the relative darkness. I took a drink of my beer, and Noah let my lack of an answer go. Pepper spied a leaf and bolted off the porch to pounce on it, then rolled in the grass.

“Cute dog,” he said.

“She is.”

We watched her antics another minute.

“Hey, Noah? You know how you told me we weren’t going to be friends?”

He nodded, not looking at me.

“I was wondering if you might reconsider.”

He closed his eyes a second, then put his arm around me, pulling me a little closer. “Sure.”

He was warm and solid, and his good Noah smell and the tickle of his hair made me want to go back to that pub across from Grand Central Station and figure out a way that I could have said yes. I would’ve told those two stubborn, stupid kids to wrap themselves around each other, to look into each other’s eyes, to kiss with all the love and passion in their souls, and instead of talking about all the reasons why it wouldn’t work, just say yes, goddamnit. Yes, yes, we’ll find a way, because a love like this doesn’t come around twice.

“I should go,” Noah said, putting down his half-empty beer bottle and standing up. “I’ll come by tomorrow if the wind hasn’t knocked this place down.”

“I wish people would stop saying that.” I couldn’t look at him, so I let Pepper lick my hands instead. “You’re the best, Noah. Thank you.”

He started to say something, then stopped. “Good night, Sadie.”

I watched him drive off, the earlier image of homecoming in reverse. His headlights cut through the night, then disappeared, and the sky seemed cold and lonely.

— —