In my peripheral vision I can see the confusion on Ash’s face and I get it, but I don’t want to explain that it’s not exactly the reading of the message that I’m resisting; it’s the thought of finishing it. While it’s still in my pocket, untouched, it holds the possibility of being everything I need to hear—an apology for not telling me who I was, an expression of love and regret, an address and a phone number so that I can instantly reach him. And somewhere in my gut, I know I’m going to be disappointed. But even though I would be happy to live with the idealized version a little longer, Ash is right—it’s time.

I pull the cold metal tin out of my pocket and stare at it, gathering my resolve. I hook my fingernails under the curved lip of the tin and gently pry the lid off. The baggie containing the note lies on top of a picture of me and Em at thirteen at a carnival with our arms around each other and huge grins on our faces. We had just eaten cotton candy, candy apples, and funnel cakes, fully committed to turning upside down on the Gravitron without puking. My heart aches so profoundly with the memory that I press my palm into my chest.

I take a sip of the nonalcoholic piña colada Aunt Jo made me. “Mmmm,” I say, licking my lips and watching the fireflies in my backyard as they blink in and out. I hold out my palm, soaking in the heat from the fire pit. “Where did you learn to make these? They are so good.”

Aunt Jo adds some rum to her colada and stirs it with her finger, licking it when she’s finished. “I shared these with a very handsome date on a beach in Hawaii last summer. The stars were out and the air was salty and…well, let’s just say I’ll tell you the rest when you’re eighteen,” she says, grinning at me. “And when I got home I decided they would be my new summer drink. They feel like a celebration, no?”

“Definitely,” I say, enthusiastically taking another sip of the coconut goodness. I remember Aunt Jo making that trip, but she never told me about a love interest. “So what happened to your date? Did you ever see him again?”

She adds a log to the fire. “Sadly, no.” She brushes a loose brown curl off her forehead with the back of her wrist. “But I will always have these drinks and I will always have my memories,” she says, and her expression looks serious, way more serious than her words.

I wait for her to go on, but she just stares at the fire, lost in thought. “Is everything okay?” I ask when she doesn’t snap out of it.