“I just went somewhere with Justin,” I tell her.

“Well, your father’s coming home tonight, so I want us to all have dinner.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be home before that. In an hour or so.”

As soon as those words leave my mouth, the clock that had stopped begins to tick again. I hate my mother for causing this to happen, and I hate myself for letting it.

Justin’s sitting up now, looking at me like he knows what I’ve done.

“It’s getting late,” he says. He picks up the blanket and shakes it out. Then we fold it together, drawing nearer and farther and back nearer again, until the blanket is a square. Usually we just roll it up and throw it back in the trunk.

It feels different, driving home. It’s no longer an adventure; it’s just driving home. I find myself telling him all the things he never wants to hear about—other people’s relationship drama, the way Rebecca’s really trying hard to get into a good school and leave the rest of us behind (which I fully believe she should do), the pressure I feel to do well, too, or at least good enough.

After a while, the sun has set and the headlights are on and the songs we’re choosing are quiet ones. I lean on his shoulder and close my eyes, falling asleep again. I don’t mean to do it, but I’m just so comfortable. Usually I’m leaning into him to prove something, to claim something. But now—it’s just to have him there. To rebuild that nest.

When I wake up, I see we’re getting close to my house. I wish we weren’t.

The only way for me to avoid being depressed is to create a bridge between now and the next time we’ll be like this. I don’t need to plan exactly when we’ll get there. I just need to know it’s there for us to get to.

“How many days do you think we could skip school before we’d get in trouble?” I ask. “I mean, if we’re there in the morning, do you think they’d really notice if we’re gone in the afternoon?”

“I think they’d catch us,” he says.

“Maybe once a week? Once a month? Starting tomorrow?”

I figure he’ll laugh at that, but instead he looks bothered. Not by me, but by the fact that he can’t say yes. A lot of the time I take his sadness in a bad way. Now I almost take it in a good way, a sign that the day has meant as much to him as it has for me.

“Even if we can’t do this, I’ll see you at lunch?” I ask.

He nods.

“And maybe we can do something after school?”

“I think so,” he says. “I mean, I’m not sure what else is going on. My mind isn’t really there right now.”

Plans. Maybe he’s right—maybe I always try to tie him up instead of letting things happen. “Fair enough,” I say. “Tomorrow is tomorrow. Let’s end today on a nice note.”

One last song. One last turn. One last street. No matter how hard you try to keep hold of a day, it’s going to leave you.

“Here we are,” I say when we get to my house.

Let’s make it always like this, I want to say to him.

He pulls the car over. He unlocks the doors.

End it on a nice note, I think, as much to myself as to him. It’s so natural to drag a good thing down. It takes a lot of control to let it be what it is.

I kiss him goodbye. I kiss him with everything, and he responds with everything. The day surrounds us. It passes through us, between us.

“That’s the nice note,” I tell him when it’s through. And before we can say anything else, I leave.

Later that night, right before sleep, he calls me. I never get calls from him—he always texts. If he wants to let me know something, he lets me know, but he rarely wants to talk about it.

“Hey!” I answer, a little sleepy but mostly happy.

“Hey,” he says.

“Thank you again for today,” I tell him immediately.

“Yeah,” he says. Something’s a little bit off in his voice. Something has slipped. “But about today?”

Now I’m not happy or sleepy. I’m wide awake. I decide to make a joke.

I say, “Are you going to tell me that we can’t cut class every day? That’s not like you.”

“Yeah,” he replies, “but, you know, I don’t want you to think every day is going to be like today. Because they’re not going to be, alright? They can’t be.”

It’s almost like he’s talking to himself.

“I know that,” I tell him. “But maybe things can still be better. I know they can be.”

“I don’t know. That’s all I wanted to say. I don’t know. Today was something, but it’s not, like, everything.”

“I know that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

He sighs. Again, I have to tell myself this sadness is not something directed at me. It has to be directed at the fact that he can’t be with me.

“That’s all,” he says.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. If he’s worried that I’m really going to expect this from him every day—he can’t think that, can he? I decide to leave it alone. I say, “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you will.”

“Thanks again for today. No matter what trouble we get into tomorrow for it, it was worth it.”

“Yeah.”

“I love you,” I say.

It’s not like Justin to say I love you back. Most of the time, he resents it when I say it, accuses me of saying it just to see if he’ll say it next.