He unzips each of the compartments on his backpack, and Josh starts half-heartedly checking. Brecken tugs forward his duffel bag, too, and gestures at it. “Have at it. And if any of you want lessons on how to properly pack a bag, I’m happy to help.”

Harper reaches for the zipper, her manicured hands pushing the two sides apart. “Whoa. Obsessed much?”

I lean forward to see that he wasn’t exaggerating about knowing how to pack a bag. Every visible inch of space is filled with tidy, black zippered cubes, the kind you see on late-night infomercials and in-flight advertisements. This is how organizational freaks stow their clothes so nothing rolls around in their luggage. Brecken pulls out two small cubes and unzips them revealing neatly rolled socks and folded boxers. The shirts are even crazier. I’ve seen shirts in store displays folded with less precision.

“That’s…a lot,” Harper says simply.

“I like things neat,” he replies. “It’s efficient.”

He reaches into his bag again, pulling out a larger cube, but his fingers stall on the zipper.

“What the hell?”

His voice is soft and breathy, the disbelief stark on both his face and in his tone.

“What is it?” Harper asks.

But Brecken doesn’t answer. He reaches into his bag reluctantly, giving Harper a faintly horrified look before he pulls a thick, heavy-looking book free of the bag. I don’t need to read the cover to know it’s Proust. I don’t need anyone to say a thing.

Josh’s book is buried in the bottom of Brecken’s duffel bag.

June 12

Mira,

What kind of game are you playing? Do you really believe you can continue to ignore what this is? What we are? Some nights I walk around your block a dozen times, waiting to see you in a doorway. A window. I want to find you so I can force you to look into my eyes and explain why you haven’t written back.

I’m trying to be patient. I know you are painting things for me. For us. I saw your newest work. The carnival and the crowd.

At first, it didn’t make sense. The painting is bleak and gray—nothing like the carnivals I remember. And the title—The Darkest Ride. None of it made sense, but then I saw myself. There I was in the crowd. White shirt and black shoes and a smear of hair just like mine. When I met you, I was facing to the left.

It’s a beautiful tribute, Mira. But I want more.

We can’t keep ourselves apart much longer. You’re fighting forces that are bigger than both of us.

Do what you need to do. And do it soon.

Yours

Chapter Fourteen

“What the hell are you doing with his book?” Harper asks Brecken.

“Where’s my stuff?”