The impossibility of Nick’s presence throughout all of this had no place in my logical mind, so I went to the place inside me where everything was whispered admissions and stolen touches. That place, full of changing landscapes and countless unbelievable realities, had always been the very heartbeat of who Nick and I were to each other.

“How is it that you see the things I see?” I asked him.

“Because it’s real. And we’re the only ones who know to look.”

More words bubbled up. “But I can’t tell what’s real anymore.” My eyes filled so fast, it seemed absurd, because tears weren’t anywhere the moment before, and they were suddenly everywhere.

Nick looked at me. In his eyes, I saw my face filled with hope and terror and regret and mischief and sorrow and loss, so much loss, and still it was hard to recognize myself. Maybe because of the swollen nose and hidden bruises. Maybe because of the unfiltered honesty. My face hadn’t worn it in years.

“I know what you mean,” Nick said. He held me to him. His heart beat into my ear, steady and certain. I tried to set my breath to it. Eight beats to inhale. Eight beats to exhale.

“This was never supposed to be about her wanting to die,” I told him. “It was about us. The Albany kids.” Nick’s white shirt was damp from my tears and discolored from my foundation. I tried to rub it away.

He ran his hand over the top of my hair. “You see her more than I do,” he said.

“I told you before. I carry her everywhere.”

He took the life out of her. He saw it disperse into everything around us. But he hadn’t realized how much of it went into me.

And I hadn’t realized how much went into him.

I’d been trying to rework the Adventure into something simpler. That night, looking at Nick, melting from alcohol, imagining eyes from upstairs moving rooms to peer down on us—I accepted another version of reality. The Adventure really did have a different purpose, like she’d said it would.

It was about a Marley I’d never met.

Because somebody somewhere decided that every five years, tragedies must be made extra important again. And without consulting me, Marley Bricket decided her tragedy would be reimagined entirely.

With so much to do, it was hard to choose what was next, especially since Nick Cline stood in front of me with a gaze that could break locks and shatter windows. I told him what I thought he couldn’t know. And he was still there.