Their skin is translucent under white parking lights. The Bend crew is alone, and there’s a feeling like someone might’ve hit the reset button on the entire night. Maybe Darren isn’t burned. Miriam and him are still okay, and everything can go back to normal. But there are lost hours to account for. Two friends with no shoes. And a strange new silence, like the sheet music has gone blank in the middle of a concert.

Jonathan has always been good at improvisation, and he’s good tonight.

“So, Lance. Need a hand with your stuff?”

When they get to his door, it’s hard to make the key fit. It takes him three tries. Once he and Jonathan are inside, he has to say it:

“I’m not coming home.”

His sinuses burn when the words come out, like he’s just been punched.

“Yeah?” Jonathan says. “I thought you might say that.”

The cats on the wall are unimpressed. They, like Jonathan, have seen this coming.

“I can’t leave my car,” he says.

“The car. Right,” Jonathan says. “You know, I found a wineglass under the sink.”

A hot tingle rushes up from his stomach.

“I didn’t mean to find it. I was looking for toilet paper. Then I was thinking, why would you hide one wineglass?” Lance can only stare back.

“It’s not a big deal,” Jonathan says. “Unless it is.”

The air conditioner clicks off, peeling away a layer of sound. A nervy silence. If another unnoticed thing turns off, Lance will scream.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jonathan asks.

Lance nods.

Jonathan looks over the room. Sighs. “Okay. Let’s break the news.”

They pack up the empty beer cans and bags of chips, then each grab a side of the cooler and carry it downstairs. Miriam and Darren are waiting. They watch in silence, then Miriam says:

“Where’s your stuff?”

“He’s not coming,” Jonathan says. “And we gotta go.”

A rattle in Darren’s throat, like he’s going to spit.

“You’re not coming?” Miriam’s eyes are wide, searching for the joke.

“Not tonight,” he says.

“Can we talk?”

“Okay.”

The two of them walk to the center of the parking lot. Parked cars, blue and silver. A skin-peeling glow that makes Miriam’s veins stand out in dark blue streaks. She looks breakable.

“You don’t want to come home with me?” She slurs a little. He’s surprised. She’s actually a little drunk.

“I didn’t ask you to come get me,” he says. “My mom sent you.”

“But you don’t want to come with me.”

“I don’t know.”

Sad, wondering eyes. He could drift back into Miriam’s arms now. A current, flowing east. There was no Seattle anyway. An easy float back home, into the churn of summer, Oregon State, Bank of the Cascades, life as he knew it.

And he’d never be here again.

“Come home,” she says, stepping closer.

Her open hand. Like seeing it for the first time. He cannot move.

“Is this over, Lance? Are we done?”

An answer sits in his mouth like a stone, but he will not spit it out. He does not want to hurt her. It’s still fixable. He could mash his lips against hers until the earth stops and spins backward. They can leave together tonight and just start over. But the thought of starting over with Miriam makes him so tired. So tired he can’t raise his hand to her shoulder, or even look her in the eye.

“Can you say something?”

It’s all so plain. This should hurt more. He looks straight into her blue eyes, damp and staring. He needs to feel the splinter and snap. To make it sting and bleed the way two years should sting and bleed. And this is too much like nothing. In Bend, a week ago, he’d be curled up in a ball, crying on her carpet. Sobbing and screaming into his pillow. But they are not in Bend. Four short days. Things fall away. And now there is only hard light and concrete and nowhere around them is love.

“Is it over, Lance?”

Her whisper is deep and throaty. He’s never heard this voice from her before. A shaky feeling, because there will be so much he never knows about Miriam.

“Yes. It’s over.”

He can’t believe his words, but the impact is there, in her face. She is watching him, looking for something.

“Were you going to write me a letter, like your dad?”

He stops his leg from shaking.

“Miriam.”

“I’m glad you missed the party,” she says. “Say something. Can you just say something?”

She waits. Keeps waiting, then walks back to the car. He gives her time to get there. Darren has one foot on the cooler. Jonathan is standing by the passenger door. Miriam shakes her head and gets in the car.

“You’re really not coming,” Darren says. “Have an awesome life, buddy.”

Darren looks unsteady. Lance keeps his distance.

“I’ll do my best,” Lance says.

“C’mon,” Jonathan says. “Let’s go. Get in.”

“Cool. Just one for the road,” Darren says. He flips open the cooler lid and screams, jerking backward.

AHH-HAHAHAHA!

Mr. Jangles stares up from a bed of beer cans.

“Stupid,” Darren says. He gets in the car and slams the door.

“Nice work,” Jonathan says. He picks the figure up by the foot. “It is important to maintain a sense of humor.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Oh, dang. You know what? I forgot something up in your room.” Pats his pockets. “I’ll just run up there real quick.”

“Not a chance, dude.”

“Okay. Just remember. We’ll all be waiting.”

He and Jonathan hug.

“Stay in touch,” Jonathan says.

“I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jonathan says. His voice sounds tight. “Just stay in touch, okay?”

In the car, Darren and Miriam are sitting still, like the drive has already started. Jonathan climbs inside and the interior lights dim. They are all facing straight ahead. No one yells goodbye through an open window. No one turns and waves. Three faces in the dashboard’s submarine glow, and Jonathan is speaking to them, words Lance can’t hear. The car glides to the edge of the parking lot.

The pulse of a blinker. Two red taillights shrinking into darkness. Gone.

The parking lot is quiet.

Then someone is moving toward him from the woods. A face, hovering like a pale coin in the darkness, slowly gaining dimension until it’s Breanna.

“Lance,” she says, eyes damp. Unfocused. “Will you please go? Someone needs to go see him.” He wants to ask who and where, but it will only delay what he knows she’s asking him to do. He walks down the hill. The trail is dark. Tree roots, thick and slippery, bulking up from the soil, making him slip. The forest smells like the damp-moss musk of a cave and as he picks his way down the slope, Jonathan’s face lingers in his mind. Whispers in his ear.

Just stay in touch, okay?

That awful way Jonathan’s voice had sounded. Like he knew Lance was never coming back.