“I could regret going,” I reasoned. “Good things never last. What we had was special because it existed when we both needed it, in a place where we had to find something to distract our minds. What if it’s not the same under less duress? What if we were just made to survive with each other until we moved on to the next challenge?”

“Are you surviving your challenge now?”

“I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”

“Your body is,” he noted, “but that’s all.”

“And have I been more than a body before?” I retorted, feeling like I had lived my life similarly before Cal.

“The difference is that you can be vacuous and unfeeling if you’ve always been empty and cold. You’ve been full and happy. You can’t go back to hollow again without experiencing the pain of want.”

“Where do you come up with this shit?” I asked, in awe of how spot-on he was regarding my emotions about the situation.

“I used to read copies of my mom’s I Confess magazines,” he answered, simply.

“And it said stuff like that?”

“Give or take a slight sprinkle of genius,” Maks confirmed. “I like to give it some of my own seasoning, too.”

“What am I going to do with you?” I sighed, standing up to grab us each another beer. Though Maks was accepting, a fact that I wasn’t sure how I had ever doubted, my nerves were shot.

“You’re going to say goodbye to me, I hope. Next week, next month, next year, I don’t care when it is, but I hope you’ll say goodbye.”

Somehow, I thought if I did decide to leave, I would be better served to write a letter.

31

September 1937