Dad had booked me out on the first flight tomorrow morning. Something told me if there had been an evening flight to Charleston, I’d already have been on it. And secretly, I welcomed the rush. It gave me less time to talk myself out of going.

“I mean, you’re right.” Oscar stepped closer. “It’ll give me a chance to focus.”

It was true. It was what I wanted. But it hurt to hear him come around to it.

Oscar reached out to run his hands through my hair, gathering curls between his fingers and watching them fall.

“We do have tonight, though.” His lips grazed my forehead.

“Tonight.” I let the word cascade over me. “Whatever should we do with it?”

“You kids hungry?”

Dad shouted from the top of the stoop. I hadn’t even heard him come outside. He was grinning but his eyes were scalpel sharp, taking in the shifting energy between us. Oscar stepped away, straightening his collar again.

“In the mood for French food?” Dad asked.

“Always!” Oscar said.

“Liar,” I whispered, nudging him. He nudged me back, a little green.

“My treat.” Dad’s voice brooked no argument. “Come on.”

I glanced at my shorts and layered tanks. “You can’t mean Roland, Dad, look at me.”

“Of course I mean Roland, and . . .” He shrugged. “You’re a Chertok, wear what you want.”

I turned away so I could silently scream.

“What about me?” Oscar asked.

I laughed, taking in his button-down, skinny tie, pale green khakis. “You’re always dressed for Roland, Oscar. Come on, time to get over your aversion.”

We started down the block, failing to keep pace with Dad.

Oscar whispered, “Is there a kids’ menu?”

I snorted.

“I’m serious!”

“Get the steak frites. It’s amazing.”

“I’ll trust you.”

We rounded the corner to the park just as a dozen joggers in matching pink T-shirts were crossing the street ahead of us.

“Hey now!” Oscar called, pointing. “Is this your competition in the marathon? Should I heckle them? Is that a thing?”

I laughed, grabbing his arm.

Dad turned, confused. “Are you running in the marathon?”

The same ridiculous question Nora had asked me. For some reason, it made me laugh louder. “No!”

“If you do, I’m coming.” Oscar reached out for my hand. “I’ll wave a banner at the finish line.”

“An entire banner.”

“I have long arms.”

We swung our hands as we walked, even as a weight of sadness fell over us. Oscar would have to travel from DC to be at the finish line. And I wouldn’t even be running, so no visit.

And I was leaving tomorrow.

We tightened our grip, fighting reality as long as we could.

32.

dad’s table was waiting when we got into the tastefully dimmed restaurant, the maître d’ ushering us straight to it with hushed greetings.