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His head snaps up at that, and I worry for a moment that I was too harsh. But then he recovers, his features softening. “You may have a point there.”
“Neither of us has to be who we were in high school, though,” I say. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s the whole point. And sure, I’m personifying the fuck out of the universe, but you know what?” I turn my head to the ceiling, that ominously flashing light bulb. “Whatever’s out there or not out there—I’m not afraid of it. I’ve been through worse. We both have.”
Back before the loop, I was so focused on being someone new in college. Having the chance to reinvent myself. And then getting stuck convinced me that would never happen.
It’s not that college was supposed to change me. I had to be the one to change, even if I literally haven’t been able to move forward. I’ve let people in, allowed them to see the softness in me that I’ve spent years pretending didn’t exist. I’ve realized that it’s okay not just to need people, but to want people. I’ve allowed myself to want things unashamedly, to put that out in the world and let the world respond. A risk I’m learning is okay to take.
Miles told me I was different, and I’m starting to see he was right. College has changed me, in a way I never could have predicted. Maybe I’ll never make it onto the Washingtonian or join Hillel or study abroad. Maybe I’ll never say something worth immortalizing in Sharpie. But right now I have this person next to me, and the knowledge that I mean something to him, the way he means something to me.
And that’s all the certainty I need.
“Miles.” I bring my hand to his jaw, his cheek, skimming a thumb along his cheekbone. Another deep breath, and then I become brave. “I love you,” I say, and it instantly feels right. “And I promise I’m going to love you tomorrow, too.”
His face goes slack, eyes filling with a new kind of affection. “I—I love you too, Barrett.” He clutches me to his chest, and I can feel his heart pounding against mine. The night we embraced on the beach feels so very long ago. I can’t remember ever not hugging him like this. “God, I love you.”
I kiss him, right there on the grimy elevator floor, that damn light bulb swaying above us and casting half the space in shadow. I kiss him like it’s the first time, the last time, all the times in between. I kiss him to make up for all the days I didn’t kiss him but wanted to, and the way he kisses back with a tender desperation, I wonder if he’s doing the same thing.
His hands are in my hair, pulling my body to his, and a tiny groan slips past my lips—that single day we spent in bed wasn’t enough.
When we draw back, I hold out my hand. “Do you trust me?”
He’s taken so many chances with me. I just need him to take one more.
“Yes.” He says it without hesitation, around a deep exhale that sounds like relief. His shoulders straighten, and there he is, the boy I love. We get to our feet, shaky but sure. “I trust you. Whatever happens… we’ll figure it out.”
“Together,” I add.
“Together.”
Miles threads his fingers with mine, and I bring our joined hands up to the elevator button. With our fingers tangled, I’m not sure who hits it first.
There’s a split-second pause, as though the button needs a moment to process what we’ve asked of it.
And then the light above us blinks out as the elevator plunges into darkness.
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
Chapter 40
SOMEWHERE, AN ALARM CHIMES.
It’s instantly familiar, though I haven’t heard it since June. I shut it off all summer, until a few days before I moved in, then spent too long playing each alarm tone before settling on the one I’ve used the entire time I’ve had this phone. Insistent, but not too intrusive. Repetitive, but not annoying. The kind of alarm I’d find myself humming sometimes and convince myself it was a real song.
And… it’s still chiming.
I roll over, fumbling around on the nightstand for my phone. Except—it’s not my nightstand at home in Mercer Island, the wooden one my mom and I found in a resale shop and fell in love with, with its curved legs and scalloped edges. The surface is smoother. Colder.
Olmsted, I realize, and in a moment, it all comes rushing back. My sluggish fingers finally hit snooze. With my heart hammering in my chest, I crack one eye, blink a few times, and spy the date on my phone screen.
Thursday.
Thursday.
September 22, 7:15. 7:16 now, since it took me so long to find the snooze button.
I jolt awake, head swimming as I sit up too quickly, not ready to celebrate quite yet. My memory of yesterday is fuzzy. The light went out, and the elevator started dropping… and then nothing. A blank.
I need more proof. Because any good scientist needs to test their hypothesis, I swipe through my news apps, my social media, my calendars.
