“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . the whole birthday thing really fucked me up.” Parker looks at me in the way that only he can: chin lowered, watching me with those huge eyes and the lashes thick as brushstrokes, which on anyone else would look girlish. His perfect upper lip, shaped exactly like a heart. “Remember last year, when we all went to East Norwalk together? And Ariana scored beer from that sleazy guy who worked at the 7-Eleven. What was his name?”

A memory rises up: standing with Parker in the parking lot, doubled over laughing because Mattie Carson was peeing on a Dumpster next to the nail parlor, even though there was a bathroom inside. I don’t even remember why Mattie was there. Maybe because he’d offered to bring Super Soakers he’d borrowed from his younger brothers.

Parker doesn’t wait for me to answer. “We tried to break into that creepy lighthouse on Orphan’s Beach. And we had a water fight. I creamed you. I totally creamed you. We watched the sunrise. I’ve never seen a sunrise like that. Remember? It was practically—”

“Red. Yeah. I remember.” It was freezing by then, and my eyes were gritty from the sand. Still, I was happier than I’d been in years—maybe happier than I’d ever been. Parker had lent me his sweatshirt (National Pi Day), and I still have it somewhere. Ariana and Mattie had fallen asleep on a big flat rock, huddled together beneath his fleece, and Nick, Parker, and I sat side by side, a picnic blanket draped around our shoulders like an enormous cape, passing the last beer back and forth, our toes buried in the cold sand, trying to skip stones across the waves. The sky was flat silver, then a dull copper, like an old penny. Then, suddenly, the sun broke free of the ocean, electric red, and none of us could speak or say anything—we just watched and watched, until it was too bright and we couldn’t watch anymore.

Suddenly I’m angry at Parker: for reviving the memory of that night; for showing up now, when I’d already convinced myself I was over him; for making everything crack open again. For his perfect lips and his smile and those stormy eyes and the fact that even standing next to him I can feel an invisible force moving between us.

Magnetism, my chem teacher would call it. The seeking of a thing for its pair.

“Is that what you came to say?” I look away, hoping he can’t read how badly it aches to be next to him. How badly I want to kiss him. If I don’t act angry—if I don’t get angry—the ache will only deepen. “To take a stroll down memory lane at nearly one a.m. on a Wednesday?”

He squints, rubbing his forehead. “No,” he says. “No, of course not.” I feel a hard squeeze of guilt. I could never stand to see Parker unhappy. But I remind myself that it’s his fault: he’s the one who showed up out of nowhere, after all this time.

“Look.” Parker’s still swaying, and his words are soft around the edges—not slurring, exactly, but like he can’t be bothered to make hard sounds. “Can we go somewhere to talk? Five minutes. Ten, tops.”

He makes a move for the door. But there’s no way I’m letting him inside and risking waking up Mom—or worse, Nick. She never said anything about Parker and me, not directly, but I could read on her face how much she disapproved. Worse. I could read the pity, and I knew what she was thinking. One time I’d even heard her friend Isha say it out loud. They were in Nick’s room and I was climbing down the trellis and Isha’s voice rose up suddenly.

“She isn’t prettier than you, Nick,” she’d said. “It’s just that she shoves her tits in everyone’s face. People feel bad for her, you know?”

I didn’t hear Nick’s reply. But at that moment she’d stood up and her eyes slid across the window and I swear, I swear she saw me, frozen, gripping the trellis with both hands. Then she reached out and yanked the curtains shut.

“Come on,” I say, and take hold of Parker’s arm, dragging him off the porch. I’m surprised when he fumbles for my hand. I pull away, crossing my arms again. It hurts to touch him.

My car is unlocked. I swing open the passenger door and gesture for him to get in. He freezes.

“Well?” I say.

He’s staring at the car as if he’s never seen one before. “In here?”

“You said you wanted to talk.” I walk around to the driver’s side, open the door, and get in. After another minute, he climbs in after me. With both doors shut, it’s very quiet. The upholstery smells faintly of mildew. I’m still holding my phone, and I half wish it would ring, just to break up the silence.

Parker runs his hands over the dashboard. “This car,” he says. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in this car.”

“So?” I prompt him. The car is stuffy, and it’s so compact that every time he moves, we bump elbows. I don’t want to think about what we used to do in here—and what we didn’t do, what we never did. “You have something you want to say to me?”

“Yeah.” Parker shoves a hand through his hair. It immediately falls back into place. “Yeah, I do.”

I wait for a long beat of silence. But he says nothing. He doesn’t even look at me.

“It’s late, Parker. I’m tired. If you just came over to—”

He turns to me suddenly, and the words get caught in my chest: his eyes are two stars pinned to his face, blazing. He’s so close I can feel the heat from his body, as if we’re already pressed chest to chest, hugging. More. Kissing.

My heart shoots into my throat.