But when she looks up at him, his eyes are so sad that it pulls her up short. In the silence that follows, it’s almost as if Scotty’s stupid joke has come true. Behind them, pins are crashing to the ground over and over again with a sound like thunder, like something shattering, but right here, in the muffled space between them, it might as well be the quietest place on earth.
“Yeah, well,” Aidan says eventually, just before walking out the door into a dusting of rain, “it’s not like you’ve ever said it back.”
The Mini-Mart
9:41 PM
When she doesn’t find him by the car, Clare walks back around to the side of the building, where Aidan is sitting on the curb, his head bent over his phone. There’s a faint rotten smell coming from the nearby trash bins, blown in their direction by the rain: a fine, clinging mist that feels good after the closeness of the bowling alley.
Clare stands over him for a few seconds, but when he doesn’t show any sign of acknowledging her, she finally joins him on the curb, leaving a few inches between them.
“I’m sorry,” she says, tilting her head to look at him. “I didn’t know it still bothered you.”
Aidan laughs, but there’s nothing funny in the sound of it. “That you don’t love me?”
“That I don’t say it.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not,” she insists, as she’s done so many times before. “You know how I feel about you.”
“See,” he says, “that’s the problem. Maybe I don’t.”
“Aidan.”
“No wonder you think we should break up,” he says, his eyes flashing with anger. “If you can’t say it now, you probably never will.”
“I’ve told you,” she says, grinding the heels of her hands against her eyes, already feeling defeated by an argument she’s never going to win. “I don’t want to say it unless it’s—”
“True?” he asks. “Real?”
She shakes her head, frustrated. “Unless it’s forever.”
“Right,” he says, looking hurt. “And this isn’t. Message received.”
They’re both silent after that, and Clare closes her eyes. She’d give just about anything not to be talking about this. Not tonight. Not when they only have so many hours left. Especially since she knows the only thing she can say to make it better is the one thing she still can’t bring herself to voice.
For a long time, Aidan hadn’t seemed to mind. Shortly after he’d first said it—right here at the bowling alley—they’d spent an afternoon at an art museum downtown. There was a special Picasso exhibition, and Clare had stopped to study a painting of a child holding a white dove.
“Looks like true dove to me,” Aidan had joked, coming up behind her.
“Definitely dove at first sight.”
“You know what I dove? Paintings of doves.”
She smiled. “Oh, yeah?”
“And actual doves,” he said as she turned, slipping her arms around his neck. “Who doesn’t dove doves, right?”
“I dove you,” she’d said, rising onto her tiptoes to kiss him.
And for a while, that had been enough.
I dove you, Clare had said a week later, the words bubbling up inside her as she watched him scramble around on the floor of the grocery store after his bag of apples had split open. I dove you, she’d shouted above the noise, after he’d kissed her in the wild, celebratory aftermath of a lacrosse win, and she’d said it again during the quiet moment just before they parted on an ordinary Tuesday night in her driveway.
I dove you, I dove you, I dove you.
It was just one letter off, but to Clare, it came from the same place. Swapping out a D for an L shouldn’t have mattered—not when all the right feelings were there—but for some reason, it did. It felt safer, somehow, less permanent. Because love wasn’t something you could take back. It was like a magic spell: Once you said the words, they were simply out there, shifting and changing everything that had once been true.
All her life, Clare has watched her parents pass the word back and forth as if it weren’t a fragile object, as if it were the sturdiest thing in the world. They’ve never been content to say it just once. “I love love love you,” her dad calls to her mom each morning as he walks out the door, and she always yells it back to him the same way: “I love love love you.”
Clare had asked them about it once, when she was little, and they’d just smiled and said it was because they loved each other three times as much as anyone else.
But later, when she was old enough for the story—nine years old and starting to ask questions—they sat her down to explain the truth about their history, about how they’d each been married once before.
“But why?” Clare had asked at the time, trying to absorb the idea that not only had her parents had lives before her, but that they’d also had lives before each other. It was mind-boggling to try to imagine a time when they hadn’t been a family, when there weren’t pancakes on the table every Sunday morning, when their names weren’t written in the sidewalk out front, when their shoes weren’t strewn beside the back door.
“Why…” she’d asked, blinking back tears, feeling like the whole world had gone sideways. “Why didn’t you just wait for each other?”
“We were young,” her mom had explained gently, stroking Clare’s hair. “We thought we’d both found real love. But really, it was just first love.”
“Things change when you get older,” her dad said. “But we were lucky. For us, second love turned out to be the best kind.” He reached out and took her mom’s hand. “Which is why I don’t just love your mom. I love love love her.”
“Why three, then?” Clare asked. “If it’s only the second?”
“Because two isn’t nearly enough,” her dad said with a smile. “But if I said it a thousand times, I’d be late to work.”
Clare is aware that her parents aren’t normal—not because they’re both divorced, but because they’re so bizarrely happy now. What she doesn’t know is whether that’s because they’re just lucky—because they’ve been fortunate enough to find each other in spite of making a mistake the first time around—or whether what they say is true: that second love is the best kind.
But either way, something about this has made her overly cautious when it comes to love. There’s too much uncertainty, too many chances to make mistakes.
And she doesn’t ever want Aidan to be a mistake.
So no matter how strong her feelings for him, she refuses to rush the words. They’re too significant, too definite, too lasting. When she finally says them, she wants it to be to the first, last, and only person. She wants it to count.
“Yeah, but you actually say it all the time,” Aidan once pointed out as they stood at the sink, washing some vegetables they’d brought home from the farmers’ market in town. “You say it to your parents. And to Bingo.”
Clare had rolled her eyes. “That’s different. He’s a dog.”
“So, what, I just need to beg more?” he’d joked, starting to get down on his knees, right there on her kitchen floor. She’d caught him by the elbow and pulled him up again, kissing him instead.
“No begging,” she’d said, in the same firm tone she always used to scold the dog.
But now it’s been like this for so long—a careful joke, a fragile understanding—that she’s completely caught off guard by his reaction tonight.
She swivels to face him more fully, but he still refuses to meet her eye. “I might not say it, but I obviously show you how I feel,” she says. “Why do the words have to be so important?”
“They just are,” he says, standing up and brushing off the back of his jeans. “Not because you’re saying them, but because you’re not.”
When he starts to walk away, she stands up, too. “I don’t get why you’re so upset about this now,” she says, jogging after him. “I didn’t think you cared before—”
He stops abruptly. “God, Clare. Of course I cared. How m
any times do you think someone can say I love you without hearing it back?”
Her heart falls at this, because all his anger is stripped away now, and what’s left is just pure hurt.
“I’m sorry,” she says, reaching for his hand, but he pulls it back, then turns to the car, fumbling for his keys.
“I used to think it was just another one of your stupid rules,” he says with his back to her. The shoulders of his shirt are damp from the rain, and his hair glistens with it. “But now I’m not so sure.”
Clare blinks at him, feeling leaden straight down to her toes. However prepared she thought she’d been to break up with him tonight, she realizes now that she hadn’t really expected it to happen. At least not like this. Not in the way that most couples break up: fighting and scrabbling, dredging up long-dormant arguments and lobbing them at each other like grenades. If it had to end, she’d imagined it would be poignant and inevitable: a single tear, a sorrowful hug, a brave goodbye.
But Aidan is already in the car, the engine humming to life, and there’s nothing for her to do but hurry around to the other side and get in, too, worried that he might actually leave without her. When she does, he lurches out of the spot without a word, his hands tight on the wheel, his mouth set in a straight line.
It isn’t until they’re nearly back to the main part of town that he clears his throat, a rattling noise that makes Clare jump a little.
“Where to?” he asks, and she lifts a shoulder.
“Wherever you want.”
“What about the list?”
She glances over at him. “It feels kind of silly now,” she says quietly, and he doesn’t disagree.
When the light changes, he takes a left. “I need to get gas.”
“Okay,” she says with a bit too much enthusiasm. It’s just a relief to have a next step. She takes a deep breath, then tries again. “That sounds good.”
The gas station is on the edge of town, a small patch of uneven asphalt with six rusted pumps. Behind them, there’s a darkened car wash and a mini-mart where, through the window, they can see a bored-looking attendant flipping through a magazine at the counter.
Aidan hops out without a word, crossing in front of the car to reach the fuel tank, which is on Clare’s side. While he adjusts the hose, she pulls out her phone, giving the inside of the car a faint glow. It’s just after ten o’clock, and what had before seemed like it would be the shortest night of her life—marked by too many things to say and too many places to go—now looms ahead of her, endless and full of uncertainty.
As he waits for the tank to fill up, Aidan leans against her window, the back of his blue plaid shirt pressed flat against the glass. Normally, she’d do something like roll the window down to startle him, and then he’d do something like whip around and surprise her by wielding a squeegee, threatening to drip it on her until she got out to help him, and then they’d spend the time until the pump clicked soaping up the windows of his perpetually dirty car.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she just sits there, quietly waiting.
She’s deep enough inside her own head that when someone knocks on the driver’s-side window, she makes a startled noise. When she looks over to find a police officer peering in, her stomach lurches and, reflexively, her face goes hot with a guilty flush.
But the man is smiling at her expectantly, and after a beat, Clare realizes that she actually knows him: It’s her friend Allie’s dad. It’s been a while since she’s seen him, and she’s surprised that he even recognized her. The last thing she feels like right now is small talk, but she leans across the car to roll down the window anyway.
“Hi, Officer Lerner,” she says with a little wave. She and Allie were best friends in elementary school, and though they’ve since grown apart, pulled into different social circles somewhere around the start of junior high, they’ve always remained friendly in the way you do with anyone who’s witnessed such a significant slice of your past.
“Hey, Clare,” he says, leaning his forearms on the window. “Getting ready to head off soon?”
“Tomorrow morning, actually.”
“How’re your parents taking it?”
“Oh, I think they’ll survive,” she tells him, but he runs a hand over the back of his beefy neck with a rueful look.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he says. “Allie left last week, and I’ll tell you what: Her mother and I are at loose ends. It feels like I’m missing my right arm.”
“I’m sure she’s missing you, too,” Clare assures him as Aidan finishes up at the pump and walks back around the front of the car.
“Hi there, young man,” Officer Lerner says. “You showing Clare a nice time on her last night?”
“Yes, sir,” Aidan says, sticking out his hand. “It’s mine, too, actually.”
“Last night,” he says, nodding appreciatively. “That’s big, huh?”
From where she’s sitting in the car, Clare can only see Aidan through the bug-speckled windshield, and she watches as he bobs his head a few times.
“You know,” Officer Lerner says, “I met Allie’s mother when I was in high school.”
“Oh, yeah?” Aidan says, cutting his eyes in Clare’s direction.
She knows what he’s thinking.
He’s thinking: See?
He’s thinking: I told you so.
He’s thinking: It can happen.
But Clare only looks away.
It’s true that the world is full of signs. They just mean different things to different people.
To Clare, this looks like the exception.
To Aidan, it looks like the rule.
“Love of my life,” Officer Lerner says with a wink, then taps the hood of the car once and steps back. “Though I’d better get going. If anyone spots me hanging around here too long, she’ll think I’ve been buying candy again, and she’ll have my neck for that.” He pats his chest pocket, which rustles, then winks at them again. “You two enjoy your last night, okay? Stay out of trouble.”
“We will,” Clare promises.
When he’s gone, Aidan slips back into the driver’s seat and then sits there for what seems like a very long time without turning the key. As she waits, the silence starts to feel like something tangible, so thick it’s hard to breathe, and her face has gone warm in the too-small car. She moves to roll down her window, then changes her mind.
“Gum,” she says, her mouth a little chalky. “I need gum.”
Aidan frowns. “Okay.”
“Be right back,” she says, pushing open the door and gulping in the cool air as she weaves between the pumps.
Ahead of her, the mini-mart is like a brightly lit fishbowl in the surrounding darkness, and inside, it smells like an odd mix of gasoline and hot dogs. As she wanders up and down the aisles of chips and candy, the packaging electric-looking under the too-harsh lights, her heart beats fast at the thought of returning to the car.
They’d had a fight here once. It wasn’t their first, and it wasn’t their biggest, but it had trailed them all the way from Aidan’s house, where his father had—as usual—been on his case about his grades, which were always hovering somewhere between decent and pretty good, not because he wasn’t smart, but because he didn’t care enough to try. As they drove away, Clare couldn’t quite bring herself to disagree with Mr. Gallagher.
“If you spent even half the energy you do on the lacrosse field…” she’d said, and Aidan shot her a look.
“It’s just as important,” he said. “We both know I’m not getting into college because of my grades.”
“Not if you don’t try,” she agreed as they pulled up to the gas station.
It had only escalated from there, and by the time they walked into the mini-mart, they were barely speaking. But after a few minutes wandering separate aisles, both of them still stewing, Clare felt something hit her lightly between her shoulder blades, and she spun around to find a box of Nerds on the floor at her feet.
/> When she looked up again, Aidan was smiling at her from the other side of a display of chips. “You’re right,” he said, then pointed at the box. “I’ll try harder. I promise to be more of a nerd.”
Clare glanced at the rack of candy bars closest to her and tossed him a roll of Smarties. “You’re already a nerd,” she told him. “And you’re already smart. You just need to put in the time.”
“I know,” he admitted.
She held up a Payday with a grin. “A reward for hitting the books.”
He threw a 100 Grand in her direction. “What’s it worth to you?”
“Go fish,” she said, winging a package of Swedish Fish at him, and by the time the cashier had kicked them out of the store, they were both laughing so hard they didn’t care.
Now the door opens behind her with a mechanical chime, and Clare turns to see Aidan standing there, looking a little dazed. He opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it shut again, and Clare is gripped by a sudden regret at the way the night has unfolded. It feels as if they’re on the brink of something they might not be able to take back, and she takes a quick step toward him, still not sure what she’s going to say. Behind her, the man at the register drums his fingers hard on the counter.
“You gonna buy that?” he asks, and Clare looks down, realizing that she’s holding a pack of gum in her clenched fist. When she uncurls her fingers to look at it, she feels like laughing. She tosses it to Aidan, who snags it easily, then holds it up to read the label. Once he does, his whole body seems to relax, and he raises his eyebrows.
“Ice Breakers?” he says, and she shrugs.
He takes a few steps in her direction, and for a moment, in spite of everything, she wonders if he might kiss her, right here in the mini-mart. But instead, he stops in front of the candy display, scanning the rows of neatly stacked boxes and bags until he finds what he’s looking for, and when he hands it to Clare, she realizes it’s even better.
Not just one kiss, but a whole package.
The Fountain
10:21 PM
They walk to a soundtrack of crinkling plastic and fluttering wrappers, swapping colors and flavors, exchanging chocolate for gummy bears and licorice for gum. There’s more back in the car, which they left tucked in a parking spot behind the mini-mart, but they couldn’t carry it all. It had been an impulsive, giddy buying spree, the two of them laughing as they tossed candy onto the counter, the packages skidding like hockey pucks toward the surprised cashier.