Fuller’s is pretty empty, except for a blue Ford Taurus parked next to the store.

I don’t think anything of it until I get to the door and I see who it belongs to and then I don’t know what to think. Her back is to me and she’s leaning over the counter talking to Milo, but I don’t need to see her face to know who it is. I would recognize those legs anywhere. They’re perfect and tanned. Go all the way up.

Missy Vinton.

Milo looks up from his spot behind the counter and sees me at the door. I hold up a hand and take a step back like, forget it, I’ll go, but he shakes his head and Missy turns to see who he’s staring at and when she sees me, she hurries over and opens the door.

The last time I saw Missy—before she moved during junior year—she was turning into Marilyn Monroe.

Now the transformation is complete.

Missy Vinton.

That girlfriend Milo had that one time.

“Eddie! Oh my God!” Missy exclaims. She throws her arms around me and squeezes me so hard I can’t breathe. “It’s so good to see you!”

I don’t know what to say. I stare at Milo over her shoulder. He’s looking straight at me, but I can’t read his expression.

Missy Vinton.

It took forever for him to ask her out. He never said love and I know it wasn’t, but he wanted her so bad he had no problem telling me just how much. He was the one who pointed out the Marilyn Monroe thing (only a fleeting resemblance at the time) and he’d always make these really lame jokes about changing his name to Joe. And then, in the middle of sophomore year, at some party at Deacon Hunt’s, he got drunk enough to tell her so.

And I guess she’d liked him for ages too.

They were the loneliest ten months of my life.

“Welcome back,” I tell her.

“Thank you. I am so,” Missy says, and then she pauses right there. Pause. I steel myself for what’s coming next. “Sorry about your father, Eddie. Like, really, really sorry.”

“Thank you,” I say, and she finally pulls away. “Wow, Missy. This is a surprise.”

“Really? I told Milo I was coming in, like, May. I’m staying the summer—with my grandparents.” She turns around to look at him. “You didn’t tell her?”

“No,” I say before he can. “He didn’t.”

It’s not subtle. Not the way it comes out of my mouth. And I’m sorry for the way it comes out of my mouth because I don’t want to cause this kind of tension. Missy actually steps back like I’m going to bite her or freak and I want to tell her it’s not her, even though it’s her. But it’s also not her. It’s Milo.

It’s Milo not telling me.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I try to keep my voice light.

Because Missy and Milo never really broke up. They just stopped. She moved. They didn’t write. They didn’t talk on the phone. I know he missed her. So maybe it wasn’t a full stop between them so much as it was only a pause. Pause. Resume play.

Fantastic.

“I was going to,” he says awkwardly. “But then … your dad…”

“Oh,” I say. And then I laugh. I don’t know why or where it comes from. Nervous laugh. Missy shifts, awkward, and even Milo looks uncomfortable and I’m already a third wheel. “Oh, right.” I nod. “Right. That makes sense. Sorry.” This is painful. “So I should go.”

“But you just got here,” he says.

“I know, but I don’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not—”

“I am.” I take a few steps back and pull the door open. “I mean, I did.”