Page 84 of 72 Hours of You

The sun is dipping farther and farther in the sky. Only a sliver of it is left over the top of the falls.

I can hardly see his face now. The darkness is starting to take over this little piece of the world.

“Sydney,” he starts, “there’s something I have to—”

A crack of thunder erupts out of nowhere and the sky opens up on us.

“Oh shit!” Peter grabs his backpack and we scramble to put on our shoes, the rain falling in sheets, soaking everything.

“Come on!” Peter grabs my hand and we make a break for it, slipping in mud, dodging branches, until we get out of the woods.

The rain is relentless, but Peter still runs over to open the car door for me. And I mean, it’s Dear Diary levels of corny but something about him standing there in the rain, holding the door for me, is making my chest swell up.

I put my hand on his.

“Sydney.” There’s something about the way he’s saying my name, standing there letting the rain soak him, that sends a jolt of fear through me.

I take my hand back. “What?” I can feel it. I can feel it already. Something is shifting.

Another crack of thunder explodes and the sky lights up for a second, the lightning zigzagging across the sky.

“Let’s just get in the car.”

“No,” I say. “Tell me now.”

“I … Today was great,” he says. “Really. So great.”

“But?” The rain pounds around us, little rivers forming in the wet dirt. I keep my face steady even as my heart splinters along with the lightning above us. Of course. Of course of course of course. I knew this was going to happen.

“But I just … I think I need some time.”

Of course he does. Fuck. What made me think I could just tell him all that messed-up shit about my mom and Jules and me? Why couldn’t I keep my goddamn mouth shut? I knew it would be too much. I fucking knew it. Peter’s too good. And I’m—me.

“Fine,” I say, over the rain. He’s still holding the car door open for me. I get inside and shut the door before he can say anything else, a wall of glass and rain separating us.

He gets in, turns the car on and the heat up, but I can’t get warm.

“Sydney, I don’t mean it like—”

“Don’t, okay?” I say. “Just don’t.”

“I’m really sorry, Syd.” Peter looks at me like his heart is breaking, which is so unbelievably unfair. I turn my face away from him, staring out the passenger window, trying my absolute hardest not to fucking cry.

As we pull out of the lot, the windshield wipers on full blast, all I can think is: Peter was right earlier.

This was all a huge mistake.

Forty-Seven

THAT NIGHT I SEND PETER A STRING of desperate, weepy DMs that, upon further review, make me want to throw both my phone and myself into a river.

By the time Friday morning rolls around I’m fully on edge. I hit three curbs while psychotically scanning for his car in the parking lot, making Jules spill her PSL all over her new jeans. Twice.

But Peter never shows up.

And then in the middle of chem I decide if he doesn’t have to be here, then neither do I. Because, really, what’s even the point?

Fuck this.