“So, just . . .” I flail, searching for words, “to come with you?”

“Yeah,” he says, “to come with me. To Healdsburg.” Then he adds, “For the weekend.”

His shoulders drop back down as if it’s so simple.

Come along.

We’ll carpool.

It’ll be fun.

But the words settle between us, and I hear them in a different tone the longer I fail to reply.

Come away with me for the weekend.

Forty-eight hours with Elliot.

What will things be like between us in two and a half months, when they’re already so muddled now?

I blink over his shoulder to where Sean is buckling Phoebe into the Prius.

“Everyone would love to see you, and I’m the best man so it’d be nice to have a friend there with me,” he says, struggling to pull the conversation back from the brink of death. “Mom and Dad asked about you . . . they’re going insane knowing we’re back in touch.”

“I need to ask Sean what the plans are,” I say lamely. “He might have some art showing or event already in the books.”

Elliot nods. “Of course.”

“Can I let you know?”

“Of course,” he says with a small smile, a rumble of thunder bringing his attention to the sky. When he looks back down at me, I feel about as stable as the billowing rain clouds overhead. For a brief moment I imagine hugging him. I would wrap my arms around his neck and press my face there, breathing him in. He would bend closer, letting out that tiny little grunt of relief he always made. I want it so intensely it makes my mouth water, and I have to force myself to take a step back.

“I better . . .” I say, motioning over my shoulder.

“I know,” he says, watching me, expression tight.

Another rip of thunder.

“Have a good night, Elliot.”

And I finally turn to go.

then

saturday, july 9

twelve years ago

We were lying on the flat roof over his garage, basking in the sun. It was a summer break routine we’d had for nearly two weeks now: meet on the roof at ten, lunch around noon, swimming in the river, home to our families for the rest of the evening.

For as much as he enjoyed my company, Dad liked the quiet of solitude. Or maybe a teenage daughter was exhaustingly alien to him. Either way, he seemed content to let me stay out doing whatever I wanted with the Petropoulos kids until the bugs grew louder and the sky grew dark.

Andreas was on one side of me, Elliot on the other. One brother playing something on his PSP, the other reading Proust.

“You two cannot possibly be related,” I mumbled, turning the page of my book.

“He’s a loser.” Andreas laughed. “No game to speak of.”

“He’s a meathead,” Elliot said, and then grinned at me. “Ruled by his—”