“He’s gone,” I say, my lip shaking just saying the words. “I can’t get him to pick up his phone. He’s going to miss that meeting. I…I don’t know what to do.”

Mr. Chessman pushes his hands into his pockets, looking down at his feet. He kicks at a crack in the hallway floor, his shoe scuffing against the roughness a few times before he nods his head and purses his lips. When he brings his eyes back up to mine, he’s resolved in the fact that Owen isn’t coming. I wait for him to slip back into his classroom before retreating to the girls’ bathroom.

Instead of the one near the band room, I climb the stairs to one on the third floor, where I’m more confident I’ll be alone. Once inside, I pull my feet up, hiding them from view while I sit in the stall. I bring my phone to my lap and type a few more texts—I type them because he’ll see them, and maybe if I say it enough, he’ll come home.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I look at my history and count. I’ve sent the same message to Owen seventy-four times.

When the bell rings, I wait for everyone to rush by, holding my breath when a few students enter then leave my small restroom. When the bell rings again, I exit my hiding place, opening the band door and putting on my game face just long enough to fool Mr. Brody.

“Sorry, I was sick to my stomach. I feel better now,” I say as I pass his office quickly. He nods and holds up a hand before going back to his computer. I continue down the hallway to my practice room, my hands reaching for the surface of the piano and my face collapsing against my arms, the tears coming out in another rush against the raw skin around my eyes.

I give in, and I let myself cry hard for a solid five minutes, and then I cut it off, rubbing my nose along my sleeve, forcing myself to breathe in long, steady inhales and exhales. This is the same way I deal with anxiety over getting shots, and the longer I control my breathing, the funnier the comparison seems to me, and eventually I’m laughing to myself.

With my head slung forward, my fingers travel lightly along the keys, walking a finger at a time and somehow finding all of the sharps and flats. I’m setting the sad notes free.

“It’s probably good you didn’t audition with that.”

My stomach drops the moment the sound of Owen’s voice hits my ears. Everything in me falls apart in an instant, the tears running down my cheeks and my body losing strength as I turn and reach for him, clinging around his waist until he’s sitting next to me, holding me in his arms, his lips kissing the top of my head.

“I couldn’t go. I couldn’t do it. I’ll find a way to make it work. For my mom, and Gramps. I’ll find a way, get a job here,” he hums in my ear. “I couldn’t go.”

I pull away just enough to look at him, and his smile is tight, his eyes on mine, his hand stroking the skin just under my eyes.

“These are puffy,” he says, bending down and pressing his lips to my tender skin. “I’m so sorry, Kens. I did that. I was trying to do what was right, but I don’t know.”

My lips form a sloppy grin and my body shakes with happy tears, and every time I shudder, Owen holds me tighter.

“I made it all the way to the border. Do you know how far the border is? I kept trying to make the hard choice, thinking I had to. But all I wanted to choose was you. And then it hit me,” he says, his hands finding my shoulders. He turns to the side, forcing me to face him, my legs lying across his, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, wrapping it tightly within my hands, not wanting him to disappear. “I was running scared, Kens. I’ve never run scared in my life, even when I should. But I did. I was afraid I would fail, that I would be selfish, and then it would cost those I love.”

He leans forward, his forehead on mine, his hands finding mine, which have now become fists stuffed with his shirt. He chuckles when he pries them loose, bringing them into his lap, holding them tightly.

“Losing you, the thought that I could love you and lose you too—that scared me—so I figured what was the point if it was all going to just end up hurting me in the end. And then I realized how much it hurt to give you up,” he says, stopping to watch the reaction in my eyes. I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, taking quick shallow breaths through my nose, telling my brain, my body—my heart—that this moment is real. “And those texts…you kept sending those texts,” he laughs. “What were there, like…sixty?”

He pulls his phone out and holds it in front of me, his hand on my neck as he leans forward and presses his lips to mine, his smile against my mouth warming my chest, numbing the pain and healing the brokenness.