We-ll Always Have Summer Here

“You know I can’t,” I said.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay next to him—his breathing slow, his arm heavy across my ribs—and I watched the ceiling fan turn and turn. I thought about the word enough . I thought about how people spend their whole lives hunting for a love that fits into their existing world, and how maybe the braver thing is to let the love be the world, even if only for a week. Even if only for a season. We-ll Always Have Summer

He was quiet for a long time. Then he reached across the table and took my hand—not desperately, not romantically. Just held it, like a fact. “You know I can’t,” I said

“She said it wasn’t. She said she got seventy summers in her head. She said that was more than most people get of anything.” I thought about the word enough

“Is that what we’re doing?” I asked. “Collecting summers?”

His face did something complicated—hope and terror and that particular stillness of a man who has been holding his breath for a decade.

In the morning, I packed my bag. He made coffee. We stood in the kitchen, two people wearing the same regret like a borrowed shirt.