My high is gone.

Not completely, because I’m pretty damn proud of myself. As an indicator of a good night, I’m out of business cards. I sold three paintings, and I have more eyes on my work than ever before. I’m ready to paint until my hands go numb. Ideas bounce around my head but stay in bubble form. I can’t make any of them into a solid when I have Brynn penetrating my thoughts.

She never promised to say goodbye.

The thought saddens me, but it also makes me angry.

I fasten a smile on my face and wave to Candace as I leave the gallery. My parents left a while ago, after my mom made sure to tell everyone within earshot that I was her son. It was embarrassing, but I loved it. My dad’s couldn’t show his pride with his expressions, but his eyes are like windows. Through them, I saw his joy.

I hate that life took that turn for him. Capable hands turned impotent. His confident, assertive stride replaced by short, stiff steps.

Life doesn’t discriminate. It took happiness away from Brynn. One second she was driving, and the next she was driving over two people.

How can one second, two seconds, three seconds, be that consequential? A blip, a blink, and somehow they carry the weight of forever. How can one second differ so completely from the next? Does my dad ever think of the moments before he noticed his symptoms, before he asked my mom to make an appointment for him? How often does Brynn remember what her life was like when she was climbing into her car that morning, and compare it to what it was when she got out of the driver’s seat?

I step out of the makeshift gallery into a day that is nearly night. The sun hangs low behind the trees, it’s darkening light filtering through the branches and casting shadows on the road. The heat of the day has tapered off, and the humidity retreats with the sun. I don’t usually pay close attention to the weather, but tonight I’m raw. I’m inside out, my heart exposed, and everything feels sharper.

I settle into my truck but can’t manage to point it toward my house. It’s stupid. So stupid. Brynn doesn’t want to say goodbye. She told me this would happen. She said it would be easier if one day I realized she was gone.

My thumb traces my lower lip, back and forth, thinking too hard about what to do.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, and turn on the truck. I didn’t fight when Desiree left. I didn’t even try, but Brynn is not Desiree.

Brynn is like ivy. She grew around me, slipping into crevices and wrapping around limbs. She infiltrated my body, permeated my insides, devoured my heart.

I didn’t fight for Desiree because I didn’t need her to breathe.

Brynn is my breath.

Her house is dark inside. Has she already left?

Now that I’m on Brynn’s street, I can’t make myself park and get out. My truck rolls on and I wipe a palm on my jeans. There’s only one other place where she could be right now. One other person getting the farewell she didn’t give to me.

“What do you want?” Walt grimaces at me when he opens his front door.

I don’t have time or patience for the old man tonight. “Where’s Brynn?” I bark. If I had the capacity for humor right now, I’d laugh about how I sound like Walt.

“She’s not here,” he says unwillingly, as if telling me she’s not there is a betrayal.

“Fuck,” I yell, slamming my hand against the doorframe. I look at Walt, open my mouth to apologize but stop when I see the look on his face. For one, he doesn’t look offended. For two, he looks proud.

“She hasn’t left yet.”

“How do you know that?”

“She promised me she’d say bye.”

I stare at him. I cannot tolerate his bullshit right now.

He chuckles. “I take it you didn’t get such a promise.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

He waves his hand. “Don’t take it personally. You’re the one she can’t stand to say goodbye to.”

This makes me happy. Actually, it makes me really fucking ecstatic.

“Have you tried her house?” He steps out and I move aside for him. He walks farther out onto his porch and peers down the street.

My hand skims over my hair. “It’s dark inside.”

“So?”

“She likes light.”

Walt doesn’t speak. He juts out his chin and squints, scrutinizing the dark. “Damned old eyes.” He bats the air in frustration.

I join him where he stands a few feet away, searching the dark alongside him. “What are you looking for?”

He points, and I gaze out in the direction of his finger. As far as I can tell, there is nothing to see.

“What’s the make of that car over there?”

I squint too. I can’t tell from here. It’s across the street and one house down from Brynn’s. Quickly, I walk down the steps and out to the sidewalk. “Mercedes.” I tell him, raising my voice as I turn back.

The old man’s eyes widen.

“What?” I ask.

“Nobody in this neighborhood drives a Mercedes.”

“So?”

“It’s out of place.”

My eyes strain with the effort it takes me not to roll them. “Walt,” I say calmly, like I’m talking to a child. “What aren’t you saying?”

Walt keeps his eyes in the direction of the car, even though he can’t see much of it. “I don’t like it. I keep tabs on this neighborhood and I can promise you”—he jabs a finger in the direction of the car—“that car has never been on this street.”

My heart begins to race, but I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s Walt’s serious tone, or his ominous implication. Maybe it’s my knowledge of Brynn’s tenuous situation.

“What do you think is happening?” I ask.

He ignores me and hurries inside as quickly as he can.