When I let go, he pulls me close to him on the hard, dirty hospital couch, and I tell him about what I learned under the wave, about Mom and her boat pose, about being enough. He listens, those gray-and-gold eyes of his never leaving mine. They are almost the same color as the Japanese pottery Jo gave me.

“I love you,” I say, when I’m finished. “Not just because you helped save my life tonight, but because you help save my life every night—you make me want to do right by the miracle.”

I pause.

“But?” The light in his eyes dims a little.

Why do I have to keep hurting the people who care about me the most?

“I can’t be with you.”

Drew looks away, and I’m not sure what kind of calculus he’s doing, but the way he bites his lip reminds me of Mae, working her problems. After a minute, he turns back to me. Nods once.

“I get it,” he says. “You’ve got a lot to figure out. Right now. But when you’re ready, in the future, you and I—”

“I don’t know, Drew. I can’t promise you anything. I have so much work to do. Jo’s not kidding. This was my last chance. I know it. I can’t screw up again. I have to be like Mae—I have to be focused on the mission.”

There will be other waves. Different waves. I have to be ready. To not reach for a bottle of pills when they come.

“I know you’re scared,” he says. “I am, too. You died tonight. For a minute. I could feel you go. And I…” His voice shakes. “I understood the wave a lot better.” He rests his cheek against mine. “Please don’t go away again.”

I run my hand through his hair. “I heard you tell me to come back. That’s part of why I’m here right now.”

“Then I don’t understand why you think I’m not good for you.” He leans back, his face a misery of confusion. “I can help. On this … this mission. I want to be here for you, to be with you, through whatever shit comes our way.”

I want to give in, so bad, but somewhere Dad says: We can do impossible things.

I’m still mad at you, I remind him. But he’s right.