“Oh, super, John,” Mom said. “She needs to have something to fall back on. Something practical.”

“What if she’s the next Jackson Pollock?” Dad said.

“Then she’ll kill herself in a car crash while drunk-driving,” said my sister.

“Keith Haring, then,” Dad said.

“AIDS.”

“Vincent van—ah, shit. Georgia O’Keeffe, then.”

“She lived to be ninety-eight,” I said. “Guess art isn’t always fatal. But I do appreciate the support.”

My mother would not be convinced. She wore my dad down until he agreed that I should double major in studio art and art education. I had nothing against teaching. I pictured myself in a Tribeca studio, allowing worshipful artists in every Saturday for a master class. At least one of them would be named Lorenzo and be madly in love with me. So off to Pace University I went. (Columbia and the School of Visual Arts had rejected me, thanks to mediocre grades, I told myself.) But hey. It was still New York, and I was going.

In doing so, I broke Noah Pelletier’s heart, and he broke mine.

High school sweethearts. The only boyfriend I’d ever had. Wise beyond his years, stoic, hardworking, a fifth-generation townie and my first love. He was wrenchingly beautiful—eyes so dark they were nearly black, full lips that made him look a little grumpy unless he smiled, and wild, curly unkempt black hair that framed his face.

We’d been friends since before I could remember. When we were small, we’d go over to each other’s houses to play once in a while, and as we grew older and play-dates stopped being a thing, he remained one of the nicer boys in school—quiet, good at sports, a mediocre student, like me. We sat next to each other in band during fourth and fifth grades, me on flute, him on clarinet, neither of us very good, though he practiced more. He always picked me to be on his team in gym class. Smiled at me during recess. Once, he got hit in the head with a baseball, and I walked him into the nurse’s office, holding his arm to make sure he didn’t fall. In junior high, we didn’t see each other much, since he was busy being a guy and playing soccer, and an art teacher had told me I had “a real gift.”

Then high school started. Something had happened to Noah over the summer. His voice dropped an octave and his hands were suddenly big and strong. He’d grown a few inches, and when he smiled at me, it felt . . . profound. I could practically feel my heart changing—a lifetime of good-natured affection suddenly turning into a pounding, beautiful ache.