Seeing it now brings back a rush of bright, sharp emotions and a flurry of memories. Lucky and I finding this place. Playing our poorly planned Harry Potter D&D campaigns and listening to music out here after school. Walking home together after dark. I let these memories wash over me, breathing in the salt-tinged harbor air, until it all ebbs, and I’m settled again.

A tiny shape races toward me from the woods. I scoot back, unsure if I’m being attacked by a feral squirrel, but then there’s a wagging pink tongue, and it’s definitely of the canine variety.

“Bean the Magic Pup,” I say, heart beating wildly as I crouch to scratch his ears and pick up his dragging leash. “Why are you loose and unsupervised?”

“He was chasing a rabbit,” a gravelly voice says. “Until the rabbit started chasing him.”

I stand up slowly.

Lucky appears out of the shadow of a tree.

Like a phantom.

He came. Thank goodness, he came.

Dressed in long shorts and a black T-shirt, he hovers for a moment, as if he’s unsure whether he wants to come any closer. As if he might just keep walking right past me.

As if looking at me hurts too much.

It feels like a fist punching into my ribcage and squeezing painfully, wringing out anything left.

“You got my postcard.…” I gesture toward the boatshed. “Wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

“I did have to consider whether or not I should.” In dappled sun reflecting off the water, I can see the white scars on the side of his forehead and the missing part of his eyebrow when he reaches out to take Bean’s leash from me, careful not to touch my hand.

God. This is so hard.

He’s so intimidating.

And I miss him so much.

I open my mouth and feel tears prick my eyes. I try to swallow them down, but it’s no use. “Going to need you to press the button on the invisible wall now,” I tell him in a small, cracking voice. “Because I was wrong, and I need to tell you I’m sorry.”

He huffs out a breath through his nostrils and looks at the water as his small black dog sniffs around the gray rocks lining the edge of the shore. “No.”

“No?”

“You do it. I don’t own the wall.”

“We both own the wall,” I say, crying around my words. “Both of us. If we want to talk to each other, we can. But it’s not just talking and being teeth-gratingly honest. It’s listening, too—and that’s partly where I screwed up.”

“Is it?”