In response, I’d tried to be easy and unbothered, nearly professional in my hangover-preventing, concussion-checking, of-course-you’re-welcome-here care. Advil and a full glass of water to keep future headaches at a minimum. Quiet, hourly, tiptoed walks out into the living room to see his big, still-clothed body sprawled on my couch, half-covered by the blanket that I usually keep at the foot of my bed, his breathing soft and even. An extra towel and toothbrush in the bathroom, a fresh bar of soap in our tiny shower stall, a large T-shirt I got last year for free at the Northside Festival folded neatly on the counter.

All of it had gone a long way to establishing some way through for those awkward, sometimes charged moments in the early morning as we both woke and took turns showering and dressing in the incomplete privacy of the small space. When I’d emerged from my room, my hair still damp, the ends darkening the shoulders of my simple, gray cotton dress, Reid had looked up from where he waited for me on the couch, the stitched cut bisecting his brow, his jawline tight and shaded with scruff, his shoulders a few inches too broad for that borrowed T-shirt.

I thought if I let him look at me that way for too long, our Tomorrow promise to each other wouldn’t involve all that much talking. It would involve that couch and Reid’s scruff and the smell of my shampoo and our mouths and our hands and also, under the Saturday morning circumstances, Sibby probably walking in at a very inconvenient time.

I’d reached for my jacket and Reid had stood and reached for his own, and we’d made our way outside into the crisp, clear morning, the back of my hand still tingling from the feel of his lips on my skin.

“It’s nice out today,” Reid says, shifting his weight on the bench we sat on to finish our breakfasts—bagels from my favorite shop, coffee for me, tea for him, both of our to-go cups set carefully by our feet, as though they’re weapons we’ve laid down. It’s early enough still that the park is pretty quiet, no one else on the benches around us, most passersby either biking or jogging or on the kind of determined, headphone-accompanied walk that takes no interest in its surroundings.

“That’s my line,” I say, and he smiles softly.

“Meg, listen, I—”

“No, wait,” I interrupt, because in between those tiptoed walks to check on him last night, I’d thought a lot about this morning, about how to finish this fight. I’d thought about everything Lachelle had said to me, and I’d thought about the things I have to say to make it so that Reid and I both try to stay. I practiced.

“I want to go first.”