“You’re welcome, dear. Have a good day.” She passes me a paper sleeve I slide the painting into.

“You, too.”

I retrace my steps through the warehouse and back outside, climbing back into the passenger seat. Hallie studies the package in my hands with unveiled interest but says nothing as she pulls out of the parking lot.

“Can we stop at the post office?” I request.

“Sure,” Hallie replies casually, but I don’t miss the extra glance she gives the paper-covered painting on my lap.

The tiny post office is just as quiet and empty as one would expect. I don’t realize until I’m outside the doors it’s because it’s closed.

It’s Sunday.

I’m not shipping life-saving medication. There’s no real urgency. But I am worried I won’t send it if I don’t do it now, before I’ve really thought it through.

There’s a jangling sound to my left, and I glance over to see a man unlocking the side door tucked around the corner. I’d guess he’s in his late twenties, and he does a double take when he glances up and sees my face.

“Hi! Could you do me a massive favor?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer right away, looking a bit stunned. I don’t recognize him, so I don’t think he recognizes me. I put absolutely no effort into my appearance this morning, so I suppose it should flatter me he’s at a loss for words. But I just feel impatient.

“Well?”

“Uh—um, I’m not supposed to—I mean—sure.”

Euphoria overtakes any annoyance with his stuttering. I follow him inside through the door he was unlocking.

I still have Beck’s apartment address memorized, and I pay the exorbitant fee required to ship the package to Germany after relaying it to the postal worker.

“Thank you,” I tell him, flashing him a genuine smile after he’s completed the shipping slip.

I leave the post office with a skip in my step. For the first time since Beck strode away from me in Canada, I feel a little lighter. The painting is not a response to his admission, and it’s not an apology.

It’s an acknowledgment that the moments we spent together meant something to me.

That he means something to me.

If my departure from Germany damaged us, we’re in tatters post-Canada. But the dysfunction doesn’t diminish what we shared.

Maybe that’s what my mother meant about broken beauty.

Or maybe she was referring to herself.

If she hadn’t left, I’d probably ask her.

Chapter Twenty

The next two weeks follow the same pattern every fall has for as long as I can remember. The official season starts, and everything but soccer fades. I barely attend class, I stop attending parties, and I definitely don’t answer any phone calls from a German number.