We get to his truck, parked along the sidewalk, and he flips the hitch down. All I can see is a pile of quilts and plastic, but the closer I get, the more nervous Cody becomes, and for some reason, my pulse speeds up in reaction.

“Gabe helped me load it in,” he says, pulling back the tie and pushing down the blankets that are covering my desk. My hands fly to my mouth as a reflex, and I weep out loud. It’s as if my soul has found its way home, as if I can hear the sound of my dad’s keys sliding on the table, hear the roar of his truck in the driveway, and feel the scruff of his chin against my head as he hugs me—all from this one, beaten up piece of furniture.

It’s exact, nothing on it missing or damaged beyond how it was the last time it was in my possession. I scramble into the back of the truck just to touch it, just to run my hand over the dents and carvings, and my body convulses with my cries.

“Cody, oh my god…I can’t believe it…how?” I say, actually sitting in it and lowering my cheek flat against its surface.

“I went searching,” he says, his eyes peering down at me, almost happy. “I’ve been looking since Trevor donated it, and I found it, but not until the day after…” he swallows hard and never finishes, instead turning away.

He found it the day after our fight. And he’s been living with it, keeping it, struggling and waiting—not wanting it to be the reason, not wanting it to be some sort of magic bullet to fix what went wrong with us.

“We should get it in, the snow’s picking up,” he says, stepping down and reaching out his hand for me. I grab it hesitantly at first, mostly because I’m afraid I’ll never be able to let it go, and he squeezes me hard when he helps me lower myself back to the ground. I start to stretch my fingers free, but Cody fights against my movement. He holds my hand tighter in his, looking at the pairing, memorizing it. And I savor every second, knowing any moment it will all go away.

Finally, he climbs back into the truck and slides my desk to the edge for me to grab one end. When we have it lowered to the ground, he reaches up and takes one of the quilts to wipe the wet snow from the top and to cover it while we carry it inside my apartment.

We stop in the middle of the room, and I tell him to leave it here. I can tell he’s glad to be done lifting, because he doesn’t argue. Instead, he walks backward, leaning against my kitchen counter to catch his breath.

My mind is racing, trying to find something else—a reason, any reason, for him to stay…just a little longer. But Cody seems to be searching for the exact opposite.

“Right, well…I should head home. You probably have things you need to do tomorrow, and it’s late, so…” he lingers, and I can actually see his mouth twitching while he looks at me. He wants to stay—I know it in my heart. But he can’t bring himself to ask—to say the words. That invisible barrier is too thick, and it’s stopping him. “Yeah, so…Happy New Year, Charlie.”

Cody awkwardly leans forward, presses his lips on my forehead with his cold hands on either side of my face, and turns away quickly, opening and shutting the door behind him in one motion. It’s almost morning, and he’s racing away. I wished for him all night, and here he is—real and in front of me—but he’s running away.

I can’t let him go, and I don’t care if I have to take the blame for everything—if I have to be his out-clause for why his father’s shop was demolished. And it’s not because he found my desk, or because he knocked on my door in the middle of the night, or because I can tell he cried the entire trip here. It’s because I love him, and I don’t want to love anybody else. And as long as I can feel his arms around me again, I’ll do it—I’ll wear that burden every day, forever.

“Cody! Cody, wait!” I say, running after him and catching him as his hand is on the door to his truck. He freezes at my plea, and his body tenses. At first, I think it’s from the cold, but when he faces me, he doesn’t hide it, letting me see the tears streaming down his face and the shaking of his lips. He’s raw man—tough, quiet and strong—but this rift between us has stripped him to his core.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his body shaking more, and his arms frozen at his sides, his hands balled into fists. “God, Charlie. I’m so sorry—” he stammers, wiping his eyes along the back of his sleeve.

I can’t let him suffer, and I forgive him instantly, running to him and throwing my arms around his body, bringing him to me tightly. I won’t let him back away this time—this time I will make him feel me, make him get past it all. He grips me just as forcefully, his lips vibrating with sobs and short breaths as he bites at his bottom lip trying to force himself to stop, to breathe.