Minutes after I tell him we should go. That’s when we decide to leave.

It’s simple. It’s not.

Culler packs a bag of things and we realize I need things and a bag to pack them in. I spend an hour on the main street, going into the last of the open stores, buying, buying, buying up, while he gets ready at the apartment. I get an overnight bag and clothes—nothing fancy—toothbrush, deodorant, hairbrush. I think I spend too much, but I need it all and besides, I got something—money—when my dad died. I just never thought I’d be able to spend it.

This way feels okay because it’s for him.

For as quickly as we prepare, it all takes too much time. Culler thinks I’m covered—I told him I was—but I feel Beth hovering. I feel like I’m waiting for her to change her mind. And then I get the text from Milo, and he throws a wrench into all my plans.

I’M COMING TO GET YOU.

I text him back.

ALREADY GONE. IT’S OK. I PROMISE.

I wait.

CAN I CALL?

TALK WHEN I’M BACK.

BETH ASKED ME TO COVER FOR YOU. SHE’S GIVING YOU A WEEK.

I feel a rush of relief. THANK YOU.

And then: I’M GIVING YOU TWO DAYS.

“We have to go,” I tell Culler. “Milo is going to ruin everything.”

“Unsurprising development,” he comments.

“It’s surprising to me,” I mumble.

Culler thinks of all these things I don’t. He packs a cooler full of water and food and sunscreen, so we don’t bake in the car in the day, which I never would have thought of. He packs his camera and tells me it’s the minimum, but a lot of things seem to go with it—extra lenses, lens covers, memory cards, chargers. Just everything. I watch him put it all in the backseat. All this to help him process. I envy him that. I wish I had something to process this through. He even packs the photos my father took. Just in case, he tells me.

And then everything is in the car except us.

We stand outside the station wagon, neither of us moving. This is a big moment and I don’t think we know how to say it. There are sounds all around us. Haverfield is a different place at night than Branford. People talk and walk the street, laughing. Enjoying the summer.

“Okay,” Culler says.

That’s it.

We get in the car.

It feels like being in one of the funeral cars, with my mom. Parked behind the hearse, waiting to pull out in traffic. Holding her hand. It’s not exactly like that, but it feels like that. One of those moments where you know things are going to be so different afterward. When I found my dad, I knew things were going to change forever, but sitting next to her, getting ready to see him buried, I felt it in a different way. Everything ached.

This reminds me of that—how it aches.

But it’s a better ache, too.

I’m hopeful.

I can’t remember the last time I felt hopeful.