“You’re lying. It’s hot there, and you hate cutoffs and boots.”

How does he know that?

“Are you leaving because of me?”

Ooof, ouch, the heat from his eyes is burning.

I try to look offended. I even roll my eyes. I’m not good at eye rolling, Neil used to say it made me look gassy.

“I told you why I’m leaving,” I tell him, standing up. He grabs my hand, and it’s like the dream. So much that I yank away from him and take a few steps back. Where’s the crayon? I see it, lying on the floor under the table. God. Is it blue? You’re being stupid, I tell myself. This is a restaurant, there are always blue crayons lying on the floor.

“You’re not crazy,” he says. “I—”

“Kit,” I interrupt him. “Della’s coming.”

Della calls me later that night. “Look, I know we’ve had our differences lately, but you’re still my best friend, and I love you.” I let that sink in along with guilt. “We’ll make this work.”

“Sure, Dells. Of course we will.”

“I have to have someone to call to update about my life,” she says.

“Of course you do.” I smile against my phone. “That person has always been me, hasn’t it?”

When people resolve themselves to something, it becomes very difficult to feel anything but that resolve. And so, as I board my plane to Seattle, wearing a Sounders sweatshirt that June gave me as a goodbye gift, I do not cry, I do not worry, and I do not have feelings of self-doubt. This was what I had decided to do, and that was that. I pull my wine cork from my purse and hold it tightly in my fist as I take my seat and stare out the window. The Florida rain is hard and slanted. I wonder if it will be raining when I reach Seattle, which I hear has more of a gentle mist. I do not think of Kit, who is at a doctor’s appointment with Della. I do not think of Della, who is at a doctor’s appointment with Kit. I think only of my new adventure. In fact, it’s the only adventure I’ve ever taken, which makes it more exciting. A first. I want to be a magical folk, and not a muggle. I pull out my worn, dog-eared copy of The Goblet of Fire. It’s the same book I’ve kept on my nightstand since I first read it six years ago. My favorite of the seven. I brought it with to read on the plane, for courage. To remind myself of why I am doing this. It’s my Felix Felicis.

“Harry Potter,” a voice says from my left. “Have you tried reading the Bible?”

A woman, mid-forties, judgment scribbled all over her pinched, powdered face. Why do Bible lovers always have that constipated look on their face? Don’t stereotype, Helena! I do my best to smile politely.

“Is that the book where that lady turns into a statue after looking back at a burning city after God told her not to?” I say. “And where three defiant men are thrown into a furnace and don’t burn. Oh, and isn’t there a gal who feeds and puts to sleep the general of an enemy’s army, and then uses a mallet to drive a tent peg into his brain?” She looks at me blankly.

“But those are true. And that,” she says, pointing to Harry, “is fiction. Not to mention devil worship.”

“Uh huh, uh huh. Devil worship? Is that like when the Israelites made a cow god of gold and worshipped it?”

She’s enraged.

“You would love this book,” I say, shoving The Goblet of Fire at her. “It’s PG-rated compared to the Bible.”

“You, young lady, are part of a depraved and lost generation.”

She gets up, and I see her march to the front of the plane where the flight attendant meets her. I point my straw at her back and whisper, “Avada Kedavra.”

She doesn’t come back, and I get lucky because the middle seat stays open.

“Thank you, Jesus; thank you, Harry,” I say.

There are mountains. Great big ones that poke through the clouds, tipped in snow that looks like whipped cream. My heart. It is not raining when my plane lands at Sea-Tac. The sky is so cloudless I press my nose to the window and stare around in disbelief. Liars! Where is the rain? There is no one to meet me at baggage claim; that’s what makes the whole thing feel sore. There is no mother to hug me, and no father to load my luggage into the trunk while making jokes about how heavy it is. I am alone in all things, singular and frightened and excited. I collect my bags and a cab drives me the short fifteen miles to Seattle proper. I can see the city rise in a pageant of lights from the highway. There are cities that take your breath away by their sheer size; some by the beat of their rhythmic culture, but Seattle gives you your breath back. Fills your lungs. I take it in and feel like I can breathe for the first time in my life. My God, it’s like I’ve been looking for this place all along. My hotel is nice; I made sure of that. You never know what type of serial killer you’ll meet in a seedy hotel. Things may get rough in the coming months, but for the next four days, until my apartment is ready, I am a tourist. Kit sends me texts of places to go see. It’s sweet, except it keeps him present on my mind all day, the notifications on my phone with his name flashing up at me. I explore the city first, the fish market, The Needle, and the Nordstrom that started it all. I get a cramp walking up one of the steep hills, and a homeless man wearing a grubby pink beanie offers me a cigarette. I take it, even though I’ve never smoked a cigarette before. I don’t want to be rude to my fellow Washingtonians.

“I like your fucking socks,” he says, pointing at my feet with a dirty finger. I’m not wearing socks, so that’s super cool that he sees them anyway.