Frankie rolled up the hems of her jeans, then eased down to the concrete lip of the deep end and plopped her feet in. The water was surprisingly warm, though she didn’t know what she expected. That was half of Frankie Harriman’s mantra: expect the unexpected! Always be prepared for anything! Which actually, when she thought about it, was basically the Boy Scout’s motto, which led her right back to Ezra.

She kicked her feet lazily in the water and considered for the first time how things could have gone differently for them. If she’d been honest with Ezra about who she was, about what she was running from. She’d always blamed him for their split; maybe it had been easier that way, but he was so willfully naive that she couldn’t help but use that as an excuse for their messy ending. Well, not the finality of the ending. That was on her. But the messiness of it, yes. Frankie had always assumed that if Ezra had really known her, if he’d leaned into the whole of her, they never would have exploded. But, she considered now, maybe she had been focused on the wrong thing for all of these years. That she had blamed Ezra for missing the most fundamental parts of her—the independence she craved, the freedom she required as much as she needed oxygen—but maybe because she hadn’t cracked herself open wide enough, he’d never been able to peer in and get the proper view.

Frankie pulled out the Polaroid picture from her back pocket and stared at it until it made no sense, and then dropped it into the water where it floated to the middle of the pool, out of reach. Then she held up the engagement ring, which was stuffed on her sausaged finger, and found herself moved—moved—that it had made its way back into her life. She didn’t want it; she never had. But still, she had to admit, a second chance at an old love was the stuff that artists wrote about, the kind of thing that could spark a pretty good song.

TWENTY-TWO

Ezra

Zoe, who Ezra still found quite terrifying, led him back to the private room within the bowels of Burton Library once he explained what he was looking for. She’d half-heartedly apologized for macing him, but she said, as she delayered her various winter accessories—the earmuffs, then a scarf, then the mittens, then her parka to reveal yet another wool sweater below—she didn’t think he could blame her. Now she could see that he was harmless, but give her a break, how was she supposed to know?

“That said,” she continued, as she wound her way through the reading room and past the hallway with the vending machines stocked with junk food, “I’m a little confused here: your girlfriend is not the Night Vixen woman?” She held up a yellow Discman as if this were code for her.

“No,” he said. “She’s my ex.”

Zoe stopped and took a long look at him. He knew how that sounded; he deserved it.