“You’re a mess,” Elliot says on the other end of the line, after I’ve skimmed through the details of what to do with the Berkeley house.

He has no idea: I haven’t even told him I ended things with Sean. If Elliot knew that Sean and I broke up, he would come to the city immediately and stare me down until I relented, stretching to kiss him. Sean is the only barrier. He’s the buffer, giving me time to think. I don’t want Elliot to swoon me into falling in love with him again, or to press me to make a decision. I need time.

I hear something crash in the background and he mumbles a frustrated “Shit.”

“What was that?” I ask.

“I just knocked over a pot in the sink. I should do dishes.”

“You should.”

“How’s Sean?” he asks.

The subject change is so abrupt, it catches me off guard. “Good,” I say, adding without thought, “I think.”

I feel the way Elliot goes still on the other end. “You think?”

“Yeah,” I deflect. “I’ve been busy.”

“Are you being evasive with me?”

“No,” I say, wincing as I search for the best half-truth. I look around my new bedroom, like the right answer will materialize on the wall somewhere. “I just haven’t seen him much the past few days.”

“What are you guys doing for Thanksgiving?” he asks. “This will be your first one together, right?”

Fuck.

“I think I work.”

“You think?” he asks again, and it sounds like he’s eating. “Aren’t residents’ schedules mapped out years in advance?”

“Yeah,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. I hate lying to him. “I was going to trade so I didn’t have to work Christmas, but I haven’t gotten organized about it. I’ll probably be off.”

Elliot pauses—probably because he knows I’m lying and he’s trying to figure out why. “Okay, so, you have plans or not?”

“Sean and Phoebe are going to his parents’ place.” I hesitate, holding my breath. “I’m not.”

I expect him to poke at this, to make some sort of What does that mean? investigation, but he doesn’t.

He just clears his throat, and says, “Okay, so you’re coming here. I’d better do these dishes before then.”

then

wednesday, july 12

eleven years ago

The Healdsburg summer had turned from the warm humid hum of bees, berries, and sunshine to the brittle creaking of drying up creeks and unremitting heat. As we passed through the days, it seemed like we started to move more slowly, too. Nowhere was cool enough, except for the river or the closet. But even our blue, starred sanctuary had started to feel claustrophobic. Elliot was so tall; he seemed to take up the entire length of it. And at nearly eighteen, he was vibrating with sexual intensity—I felt entirely too full of nervous energy trying not to touch him. We would spend the mornings roaming the woods near the houses, and the afternoons walking down the road or biking into town for ice cream . . . but we always ended up back in the closet anyway, lying on the floor, staring up at the painted stars.