“I keep thinking about that time at Kelleys.”

“I saw the forecast that day, Taylor, and thought I could outrun the storm,” he said. “I made a mistake. But today the weather is not like that. It’s just rain.”

“But what if—”

“Trust me,” her dad says gently. “Go.”

They exchange I love yous and goodbyes, and Taylor is tucking her phone into her pocket when Brady rolls through the front gate in his big putty-colored Buick Riviera. Ever since he bought it, his friends call him Grandpa Guerra, but Taylor loves the car because it has velour seats, fake wood trim, and a cassette player. One Saturday they went to a bunch of garage sales, looking for cassette tapes.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Were you just going to leave without saying goodbye?”

“No. I mean, I was going to call you.”

“Really?” he says. “Because you’ve been kind of hard to reach lately.”

Ever since Finley died, Taylor has felt like a big empty hole. She doesn’t know how to explain to Brady—or anyone, really—that there was no one in the world she loved more than Finley. Or that she is lost without her.

Twelve years ago, Taylor didn’t understand what she felt the first time she saw Finley, with her swingy brown ponytail and pink backpack with her name embroidered across the pocket. Taylor remembers being overcome with an intense yearning to be Finley’s best friend, and when Finley asked her to read Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! in the bathtub reading nook, it was like a wish come true. It wasn’t until she was at a birthday sleepover a few years later—when the girls started giggling about the boys they liked—that Taylor’s kindergarten yearnings suddenly made sense. But when Finley confessed that she liked Dominic Vaccaro and DeAndre Grant, Taylor understood that her feelings for Finley went one way and she kept them to herself.

A few more years later, in freshman biology, Taylor and Brady were looking at plant cells through a microscope when he asked if she wanted to get ice cream with him sometime. It wasn’t the most romantic invitation ever, but Taylor didn’t mind. Brady has been an easygoing boyfriend. Funny. Sweet. Uncomplicated. He’s bigger and taller than Taylor, so she felt small wearing his football jersey on pep rally days and she felt special wearing his face on a badge on her jacket at games.

“I think we should break up,” she blurts out, looking at the fake burl-wood glove compartment so she doesn’t have to look at Brady’s adorable, earnest face.

“Do you want to date other people or something?” he asks.

“No.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Then I guess I don’t understand,” Brady says. “What’s going on?”

“I just need—”