I want to always remember this time, he says smiling and pointing up at the clock above my head.

Something flutters in my stomach and then rushes to my head. I try not to give in to the hope that anything is possible. That these dark room meetings with Gabriel followed by lies to my parents are enough to make me happy long-term.

But sometimes I can’t help it.

Before the room across from mine was filled with boxes of my mother’s old clothes and some tools of my father’s, and some dishes that Mom brought home after my grandmother died and her house was sold, it was Connor’s.

Then, it was filled with comics and punk rock records and bongs so small they could fit in the front pocket of your jeans without anyone noticing. My brother had Yankees posters on the walls, and a hat collection in the closet, and porn under the bed.

Sometimes I go in that room and try to figure out what happened to our family.

I never succeed.

Connor and I are sitting at the diner, and he’s picking at a pile of fries. Stacking them crisscross like wood pieces for a campfire.

You’re looking better, I say, although I’m not sure if it’s true or not. It’s hard to tell given that Connor is a pro at making sure his job, or insignificant things like sleep, don’t infringe on his social life.

I think again about overhearing him ask for a loan and what my mom said about boys needing their mothers.

Do you want me to talk to Mom? I ask. Seriously, maybe you can move home for a little while, save some money. You know, just until you get caught up or something.

I wait for the smart-ass comeback, the dismissive gesture. But instead, Connor hesitates and then says, Mom isn’t the one you’d need to talk to.

You want me to talk to Dad?

No, he says. I’m only pointing out the futility of it.

But you would consider moving home? I ask carefully. I mean, what if your friend comes back and you have to leave the apartment?

Connor turns his face toward the window, the sun highlighting his tired eyes. I have other friends, he says.

Friends who would let you move in with them? I ask before silently reminding myself that I don’t want to fight with him.

Yeah, he says, pausing before turning back to me. Then, stronger this time, Yeah.

I think he’s delusional, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I reach over and grab two fries from the bottom of his pile and watch the rest come tumbling down.

It’s over. I’m pretty sure it’s over, Becky says. Andy used to hold my hand while we walked down the street. He used to kiss me at stoplights. He used to stare into my eyes and tell me he couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Now, he’s on patrol all the time. And when he is around, he’s always watching over his shoulder. I need to find a way not to love him so much. Not to take our future for granted anymore. We were going to be together forever.