I listen as she closes the door, her footsteps vanishing down the hallway. And as I stand up, going back to bed, crawling under the covers, staring at the skyline in front of me, I know what I have to do.

I grab my phone, staring at the messages that I’ve drafted for Wyatt.

And I go to their contact information.

My fingers hover over the CALL option.

But knowing what you have to do and actually doing it—those are two different things.

*  *  *

“I know that I’m probably the last person you want to hear from right now, and I realize that you’re on a plane, and that you’re not going to hear this message until you get back to North Carolina, but I wanted to call you anyway. I wanted to say that I’m sorry, I’m sorry for everything. For how I treated you for so long, for making fun of you, and your clothes, and being so mean to you. And for dragging you all the way out here just to prove a point to Josh, and for making you put up with my family for an entire week, and for … and for scaring you off, making you leave. I’m sorry, Wyatt, and if it takes me the rest of my life for you to forgive me, then that’ll be fine. I just don’t think that I can go without you in my life. You make me feel good, and loved, and warm, and I hate myself for not realizing that sooner. I only hope that you’ll be willing to start over, to go back to being friends or whatever you want to be. Or maybe you’ll never want to see me again, and that’ll be okay too. I just couldn’t let you go without knowing how sorry I am, and I just hope that you’ll be able to forgive me in some way. I just … yeah … I think that I love—”

“We’re sorry, but you’ve exceeded the length of this voice mail message. Please hang up and dial again if you wish to leave another.”

Thursday: April 21

I wake up missing Wyatt.

It only took a single night of them sleeping beside me to make me feel like this is where they belonged. Then I remember last night, and I snatch my phone off the nightstand.

But the screen doesn’t turn on.

Dead.

“Shit.” I dig around for the charger.

Maybe Wyatt texted me; maybe they called. Maybe they’ve forgiven me, and they’ll be at the wedding, waiting for me, coming to get their suit, performing at the reception.