“I don’t know,” I said slowly. If Frank and I tried to be something, it would be real, in a way that was scary—but also really exciting.
“He did just get out of a really long relationship,” Sloane pointed out. “Is this going to be a rebound thing?”
“No,” I said automatically, without even having to think about it. And I realized as I did that Sloane didn’t know Frank. And she didn’t know the me I was with him. “It’s more than that.”
“But . . .” She propped herself up on one elbow. “Frank Porter is like the most serious guy we know. If you’re going out with him—you’re committed.”
“But that’s what I want,” I said, again without thinking about it.
“Really?” Sloane asked. Not skeptically, just with surprise.
“I know things might not work,” I said. “And I know it’s scary, but the things that are worth it are. It feels right.”
“What is that like?” Sloane asked, her voice quiet, genuinely curious.
I knew the answer to that immediately. It was like swimming under the stars, like sleeping outside, like climbing a tree in the dark and seeing the view. It was scary and safe and peaceful and exciting, all at the same time. It was the way I felt when I was with him. “Like a well-ordered universe.”
We were silent for a few minutes, and I realized it was okay. Maybe we didn’t have to share every single feeling we were having, and analyze it. “Em,” Sloane finally said. “I’m only asking because I don’t want you to get hurt. But what if it doesn’t work out?”
When I answered her, I could hear the hope in my voice. “But what if it does?”
I woke up when it was still dark out, and reached underneath my cot to check the time on my phone, cupping my hand over the screen to shield the light from Sloane, who I could tell was still asleep, her breath coming slow and even. It was five-thirty in the morning, and I was amazed I was awake, considering that Sloane and I had talked for hours.
There had just been too much to cover, and every time one of us would mention that we should probably stop talking and get some rest, something else would come up that had to be addressed. As we talked, trying to fit three months’ worth of conversations into a few hours, it felt like we were fighting against the dawn that was coming, and if we just kept talking, and filling up the hours, maybe we could hold it off.
But then the pauses had gotten longer, until there was just silence between us, and I drifted off with the knowledge that if I thought of something else I needed to say to Sloane, she would be right there to hear it.
But as I climbed out of bed now, I was trying my best not to wake her as I walked onto the back porch. It was still dark out, but the stars were fading, and I had a feeling the sun was going to be up before too long. I looked over and saw my list, folded up, where we’d anchored it under one of the candles. I picked it up, planning on putting it back in my purse for safekeeping, when I had an idea. I ducked back into the screened porch, retrieved my purse, and brought it back outside with me. I found a pen and my schedule for next week at Paradise in my bag. I turned it over to the blank sheet on the back, lit one of the candles so that my handwriting wouldn’t be too illegible, and started to write.
1. Call your best friend twice a week.
2. When your phone rings, answer it.
3. If you meet someone you like, wait two weeks before kissing him.
3a. (Okay, one week.)
4. Date someone who’ll wait to make sure you get inside before driving away.
5. If you’re mad at someone, tell them. I promise nothing bad will happen.
6. Get your license. (This way, you can drive me when I come and visit.)
7. Hug a Carl.
I kept on writing, filling the list out, trying to do for Sloane what she’d done for me. When I’d finished, I added at the bottom, When you finish this list, find me and tell me all about it.
I heard the door from the screened porch slam, and I turned around to see Sloane, in her vintage silk pajama set—I’d been with her when she bought it—crossing the porch and sitting next to me on the top step.
“Hey,” she said, around a yawn. “I woke up and you weren’t there.”
“Yeah,” I said, raising my eyebrows at her. “That’s really awful, isn’t it?”
Sloane laughed and I saw she’d understood me. She nodded at the paper in my lap. “What’s that?”
“It’s for you,” I said, handing it to her. She unfolded it and I watched her expression change as she read it. “I just thought I should give you something to start on,” I said. “You know, since I’ve finished all of mine.”
Sloane smiled and bumped her shoulder into mine, but then left it there, and I leaned into her as well. “You should probably get going, right?” she asked after a few minutes, her voice soft and sad.
“I should,” I said. But neither of us moved, despite the fact that across the brook I could see the first ribbon of dawn at the bottom of the horizon, and the day that had come after all.
By seven thirty, Frank and I were ready to head out. I’d showered and borrowed one of Sloane’s dresses—she’d admitted she owed me after taking the Bug JuiceT-shirt. As I came outside with my purse, Frank and Sloane were talking, and they stopped as I approached. This worried me slightly, especially coupled with the fact that when I raised my eyebrows at her, Sloane shot me a tiny wink.
Frank was wearing a Hilton Head Golf Tournament T-shirt that confused me until I realized that Sloane had probably taken it from Anderson and given it to him. Frank said good-bye to Sloane, and then he headed over to the truck, and I knew that he was giving Sloane and me a chance to say our farewells alone.
“So,” Sloane said as we stood together by the front steps. “We’ll talk tonight?”
I nodded. It was one of the things we’d discussed last night in the dark—we would talk twice a week at least, without fail. She wasn’t allowed to disappear on me, nor I on her. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m back,” I promised.
Sloane looked at me and shook her head. “I can’t believe you came here,” she said. She let out a shaky breath, and her lower lip was trembling, just like I could feel mine was. “I just . . . ,” she started.
I nodded. “Me too,” I said. She hugged me tight, and I hugged her back. I was going to miss her—I knew it. But somehow, I had the feeling that we were going to be okay. I didn’t know what would happen with us. Maybe we’d find a way to attend the same college and be roommates and have the most amazingly decorated dorm room ever. Maybe we’d end up being pen pals, sending lists back and forth. Or we’d just stick to talking twice a week, or we’d video chat, or else just spend all our money traveling to hang out with each other on weekends. I somehow knew that the particulars didn’t matter. She was my heart, she was half of me, and nothing, certainly not a few measly hundred miles, was ever going to change that.
We broke apart and Sloane wiped under her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I gave her a trembly smile back. “It’s okay,” I said.
“We’ll talk tonight,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was the plan, and I nodded.
“Tonight,” I said. We just looked at each other for a moment longer. There was nothing to do now but leave, and we both knew it. I made myself turn and walk away from her, back toward the truck, and Sloane stayed where she was, by the steps.
I got into the passenger seat, and looked across at Frank. “You okay?” he asked, as I buckled myself in and rolled down my window while he started the engine.
I looked back at Sloane, who was still standing by the steps, not making any move to go inside. “Yeah,” I said. “I am.”
Frank pulled the truck down the driveway, and I turned in my seat to look back. Sloane was walking behind us, holding one hand up in a wave. I waved back, and she followed behind us until we turned onto the main road. I leaned half out the window to wave back at her, and I saw her see this and smile. And she kept following the truck, like we were a very small parade, waving and waving, until Frank took the curve in the road and then she was gone.