And I have something else I want to do.

Justin texts around eleven. I’m guessing he’s just woken up. And I’m scared that he hasn’t, because then he might have seen me close to his house.

What are you doing? he asks now.

Just some things, I type back. See you later?

He lets that hang for a good ten minutes before answering, Sure.

Awesome, I reply.

I have to be careful here.

Annapolis, I keep thinking as I drive.

But I take a different turn.

It’s as I’m walking up the front steps that I realize how ridiculous I must look. It seemed like a good idea when it was just an idea. As an actual thing that I am doing, it’s on the sillier side of sane.

There aren’t camera crews or anything outside. No reporters. No one to notice the girl with the bag over her shoulder as she heads to the front door.

I just need to know. It will only take a minute. I’m sure of it.

He has to be the one to answer the door. It’s a Saturday, so anyone could be home.

I ring the bell and take a breath. I keep rehearsing in my head.

Then the door opens and it’s him.

Same awkward body. Same messy black hair. No tie.

And no recognition in his eyes.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

I give him a second to look at me. Really look at me.

I am the girl you danced with.

I am the girl who was with you that night.

You sang for me.

But he didn’t do any of these things, did he? He’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before. Because he’s never seen me before.

“I’m helping my sister out and selling Girl Scout cookies,” I say, nodding toward the bag on my shoulder. “Can I interest you in any?”

“Who is it?” a voice behind Nathan asks. His mother—it has to be his mother—shuffles into the frame, suspicious.

“Girl Scout cookies,” I say. “I have Thin Mints, Samoas, and Tagalongs.”

“Aren’t you old to be a Girl Scout?” Mrs. Daldry asks.

“It’s for her sister,” Nathan mumbles.

Don’t you know me? I want to ask.

But when he says no, what will I say next? How can I begin to explain?

Nathan’s mother softens a little. “Do you want a box?” she asks her son. “We haven’t had any since the Hayes girl moved away.”

“Maybe the peanut butter ones?” he says.

His mom nods, then tells me, “Let me get my wallet.”

I expect Nathan to ask me something—where I’m from, where my sister is, anything. But instead he looks embarrassed to be stuck with me. Not because he remembers the time we had together. But because I’m a girl in his house.

I start to hum “Carry On” to myself. I look one last time for recognition.

Nothing.

The difference is also there in his eyes. Not physically. But in the way he’s using them. In what they are saying to me. There’s no excitement. No longing. No connection.

His mom comes back and pays me. I hand over a box and that’s it—we’re done. She thanks me. I thank her.

Nathan goes back to his life. I imagine he’s already forgotten I was there.

I get back in the car.

Pizza? Justin texts.

Annapolis? my mind asks.

I check my email before turning the ignition.

Nothing from A.

I am not going to run around a city looking for an Avril Lavigne T-shirt.

I tell Justin I’ll pick him up.

“What took you so long?” he asks as soon as I get there.

I realize I didn’t tell him how far away I was.

“Just running around for my mom,” I say. Running around with my mom, he won’t believe. Running around for my mom, he probably will.

He looks like he didn’t get much sleep. But, I figure, maybe he always looks like that. I try to remember the last time I saw him fully awake. Then I think, Duh, it was at the ocean.

Of course it was.

“Hello?” he says. Shit, I’ve missed something.

“Sorry,” I tell him. “Just tired. A little spacy.”

“I’ve heard that before,” he says gruffly. And I realize that, yeah, I pretty much said that to him last night. “Why so tired?”

“Life,” I tell him.

He gives me a look.

He’s not buying it.

We go for pizza. Once he’s got food in him, he talks.

“I don’t give a fuck what you’re doing,” he says, “but at least have the decency to let me know how long it’s going to take. It’s just rude.”

I tell him I’m sorry.

“Yeah, yeah. I know you’re sorry, but what does that really mean? When it all comes down to it, isn’t that word just one short excuse? It’s like, my dad can be King Asshole to my mom and tell her that she and I are a complete waste of his time, and then he’ll come back and say, ‘Sorry, I didn’t really mean it,’ like now everything’s fine, now everything’s erased. And she’ll accept it. She’ll tell him that she’s sorry. So we’re this big, sorry family, and I get all the shit because I refuse to play along. I get it enough from them, and now you’re doing it, too. Don’t turn us into Steve and Stephanie, because you know we’re better than that. You and I don’t play games and we don’t cover things up with sorry this and sorry that. If you don’t want to tell me what you’re doing—fine. But if you say you’re coming over, come the fuck over. Don’t make me wait like you know I don’t have anything better to do. I just sat there like a dumbfuck waiting for you.”