He leads the way through the crowd until we reach the main entrance and step into the chill of nightfall. The rain pounds on the pavement, but beneath the overhang of the roof, it’s dry. Immediately, I feel relaxed by the sound of the rain mixing with the buzz of the neon sign, watching as cars whir past.

There’s a bar across the street, the lights on the sign flickering as they debate whether or not to completely burn out, and something about it is comforting. Today I got a glimpse into what my life before might have been like—getting ready with Zoe to go out to places where I don’t feel like I truly exist. But the sign feels authentic somehow, tethering me to the present.

“So,” Mason begins, breaking through the white noise yet somehow managing to not disturb the peace. “You invited me here for a reason.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t out of the goodness of your heart,” he says, not bothering to hide his cynicism. “We’ve barely spoken all through high school.”

The accusation catches me off guard. I didn’t expect him to read my intentions so easily, and I don’t think it’s wise to tell him about the dream, but a partial truth might be okay. Sighing, I reach up to tuck a section of hair behind my ear.

“I saw a photo of us,” I confess. “As kids.”

“Ah,” he says. Something flickers on his face as he studies me.

“We looked close. I just wanted to know what happened,” I explain, nervous all of a sudden.

“We used to be friends,” he admits simply, expression unreadable. “But that was years ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Why aren’t we friends now?”

“I don’t know, we just grew apart.” He shrugs. “People change, Alina.”

“Are you sure that’s it?”

He meets my gaze levelly. “Positive.”

I turn away, unable to shake the feeling that there’s more he’s not telling me. Kids drifting apart as they grow up is a natural phenomenon, but our history feels tangible, on the tip of my tongue yet always out of reach.

“Is that all you wanted to know?”

“What?”

“You got your answer. That’s all you needed me here for, right?”

“No,” I say slowly. “I wanted—”

But I stop short, unsure of how to finish that sentence. In all honesty, I think I was just intrigued by the idea of spending more time with him.

“That’s what I thought,” he concludes, edging toward the sidewalk.

“Don’t go,” I reply, somehow feeling like if I let him leave now, he won’t ever speak to me again. “You just got here.”

“I told you, it’s not really my scene.”

“It’s not mine either.”