Finally, we have enough food for a vegetarian feast.

“I should call my mom and tell her I’m eating at Rebecca’s,” Rhiannon says, taking out her phone.

“Tell her you’re staying over,” I suggest.

She pauses. “Really?”

“Really.”

But she doesn’t make a move to call.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Trust me,” I say. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You know how I feel.”

“I do. But still, I want you to trust me. I’m not going to hurt you. I will never hurt you.”

She calls her mother, tells her she’s at Rebecca’s. Then she calls Rebecca and makes sure the cover story will be intact. Rebecca asks her what’s going on. Rhiannon says she’ll tell her later.

“You’ll tell her you met a boy,” I say once she’s hung up.

“A boy I just met?”

“Yeah,” I say. “A boy you’ve just met.”

We go back to Alexander’s house. There’s barely enough room in the refrigerator for the groceries we’ve bought.

“Why did we bother?” Rhiannon asks.

“Because I didn’t notice what was in here this morning. And I wanted to make sure we had exactly what we desired.”

“Do you know how to cook?”

“Not really. You?”

“Not really.”

“I guess we’ll figure it out. But first, there’s something I want to show you.”

She likes Alexander’s bedroom as much as I do. I can tell. She loses herself in reading the Post-it notes, then runs her finger over the spines of the books. Her face is a picture of delight.

Then she turns to me, and the fact can’t be denied: We’re in a bedroom, and there’s a bed. But that’s not why I brought her here.

“Time for dinner,” I say. Then I take her hand and we walk away together.

We fill the air with music as we cook. We move in unison, move in tandem. We’ve never done this together before, but we establish our rhythm, our division of labor. I can’t help but think this is the way it could always be—the easygoing sharing of space, the enjoyable silence of knowing each other. My parents are away, and my girlfriend has come over to help cook dinner. There she is, chopping vegetables, unaware of her posture, unaware of the wildness of her hair, even unaware that I am staring at her with so much love. Outside our kitchen-size bubble, the nighttime sings. I can see it through the window, and also see her reflection mapped out on top of it. Everything is in its right place, and my heart wants to believe this can always be true. My heart wants to make it true, even as something darker tugs it away.

It’s past nine by the time we’re finished.

“Should I set the table?” Rhiannon asks, gesturing to the dining room.

“No. I’m taking you to my favorite place, remember?”

I find two trays and arrange our meals on them. I even find a dozen candlesticks to take along. Then I lead Rhiannon out the back door.

“Where are we going?” she asks once we’re in the yard.

“Look up,” I tell her.

At first she doesn’t see it—the only light is coming from the kitchen, drifting out to us like the afterglow from another world. Then, as our eyes adjust, it becomes visible to her.

“Nice,” she says, walking over so that Alexander’s tree house looms over us, the ladder at our fingertips.

“There’s a pulley system,” I say, “for the trays. I’ll go up and drop it down.”

I grab two of the candles and scurry up the ladder. The inside of the tree house matches Alexander’s memories pretty well. It’s as much a rehearsal space as a tree house, with another guitar in the corner, as well as notebooks full of lyrics and music. Even though there’s an overhead light that could be turned on, I rely on candles. Then I send down the dumbwaiter and raise the trays one by one. As soon as the second tray is safely inside, Rhiannon joins me.

“Pretty cool, isn’t it?” I ask as she looks around.

“Yeah.”

“It’s all his. His parents don’t come up here.”

“I love it.”

There isn’t any table and there aren’t any chairs, so we sit cross-legged on the floor and eat, facing each other in the candlelight. We don’t rush it—we let the taste of the moment sink in. I light more candles, and revel in the sight of her. We don’t need the moon or the sun in here. She is beautiful in our own light.

“What?” she asks.

I lean over and kiss her. Just once.

“That,” I say.

She is my first and only love. Most people know that their first love will not be their only love. But for me, she is both. This will be the only chance I give myself. This will never happen again.

There are no clocks in here, but I am aware of the minutes, aware of the hours. Even the candles conspire, getting shorter as time grows shorter. Reminding me and reminding me and reminding me.

I want this to be the first time we’ve met. I want this to be two teenagers on a first date. I want to already be planning the second date in my head. And the third.

But there are other things I have to say, other things I have to do.

When we’re finished, she pushes the trays aside. She closes the distance between us. I think she’s going to kiss me, but instead she reaches into her pocket. She pulls out one of Alexander’s pads of Post-it notes. She pulls out a pen. Then she draws a heart on the top Post-it, peels it off, and places it on my heart.