“I know,” I tell him. But part of me still wonders.

Cole reaches for the strand of hair that’s slipped from behind my ear. He takes it between his fingers, and I lean into his touch.

It’s instinct.

“Have you ever heard that quote about how life can only be understood backward,” he asks me, “even though it has to be lived forward?” Cole tucks the strand of hair back into place behind my ear, and I shake my head, because I’m feeling a little bit lost. Or distracted, maybe. By his fingers in my hair. “What if you knew how our story ended?”

“There’s no way to know that,” I say. “We can’t know.”

“What if we could?” he presses. “Would it matter to you?”

“Is it a sad ending?” I ask him.

“Maybe.” He pulls his hand back. Lets it drop to his lap. “Probably.”

“I’d still rather enjoy the journey,” I tell him. “No matter what.” He looks at me for a long time. “What is it?” I finally ask, and he smiles. Hands me back the photograph.

“All this time we were missing each other, and we didn’t realize it.”

And there’s one more hole I hadn’t even known I had.

Cole walks me back to my cabin. He says I need to get in. Before the fog comes. We stand together on the front steps. “Thank you for finding me,” I tell him. “The other night.” I’d been too scared and confused to say it then. Too exhausted. So I say it now.

Cole’s eyes burn in the dark. He leans in close. The brush of his lips against my ear feels more like a kiss than a whisper, and goose bumps break out all up and down my arms. “We found each other, Avril.”

“Again,” I remind him. “We found each other again.”

He stares at me for a minute, and I think he really is going to kiss me. That wild intensity in his eyes makes me wonder what his lips would feel like.

He doesn’t kiss me, though. He just reaches out and touches my cheek. Trails his fingers down my neck. And something inside me sparks. “Let’s make sure we don’t lose each other this time,” he says. And all I can do is nod.

When he’s gone, I make my way to the bathroom, and by the time I come out, the fog is rolling in. I hurry toward the cabin, anxious to be inside, locked away.

Safe.

I hit the front steps just before it gets too thick to see, and I’m just in time to catch a glimpse of someone disappearing around the corner of the cabin. It’s not so much that I see someone. It’s more just a sense of movement. A disturbance of the fog.