Dita stood in her infinity closet, feeling more like herself than she had in months, her burdens lifted away and distant. She held up a very small bikini top, wondering if she should pack something more modest.

With a shrug, she tossed it into her leather bag. She probably wouldn’t wear a top anyway.

“Hey,” Perry said, the word heavy.

But Dita didn’t notice, turning to her with a smile, holding up two more tops. “Which one? This one?” She held it over her boobs. “Or this one?” She switched them.

Perry didn’t answer fast enough, so Dita threw both of them in.

“Both it is. Are you packed? Because I could really go for some baba ghanoush and a glass of wine right about now.”

Perry’s brows pinched, and she took a breath that was too deep to be anything but bad.

Dita hung a hand on her hip. “Please tell me we’re still going.”

“We’re still going. But I need to talk to you. You should sit.”

The burden she’d shed climbed back on her shoulders and dug in its heels.

She sat on the round bench in the middle of her closet and said, numb and distant, “Okay. Lay it on me.”

“Adonis came to me. He told me what happened.”

“But you already know what happened.”

“I know. But he asked me for something, and I need to tell you before I can see it through.”

“What, Perry? What could he possibly want?”

“He wants to drink from the river Lethe. He wants to forget. Everything.”

Dita’s breath hitched, her fingers grazing her lips. It was water from a river in the underworld, the river that erased the memories of the dead.

She couldn’t speak.

Perry sat next to her with glistening eyes. “He’s certain, and I will respect his wishes. But I had to tell you. I couldn’t do it without telling you.” The words trailed into a sob echoing the one in her own throat.

She was somehow shocked at the suddenness of the ache in her heart, surprised she had the capacity to feel more pain.

The way they had left things felt final, but there was a crack left open, a window she could climb in. But when he drank Waters of Lethe, there would be no turning back. The window would close. He would die a second time because of her.

He would be gone, completely and irrevocably.

And she would let him go.

A tear spilled down Dita’s cheek. “I can’t blame him for wanting to forget. It will hurt less. He will be free of his pain, free of his memories. Free of me. But I will not forget.” She swiped at the tear and turned to Perry. “Can I take it to him? Can I say goodbye?”

Perry pulled a small vial out of her pocket. “I thought you might want to.”

Dita held out her hand, and Perry placed the small, cool vessel into her palm.

And Aphrodite closed her eyes.

She walked into the meadow, the sunshine soft and buttery, dandelion dust floating through the air in lazy tracks with no end.

Adonis’s back was to hers, broad and strong, his hair shining in the golden sun.

When she touched his shoulder, he turned, face bent in grief and suffering.

She knelt before him. “Persephone told me. I have brought you what you seek.”

Her fingers uncurled, the vial in her palm, and his eyes lingered on it for a long moment before he took it, closing it in his fist.

“I did not believe you wished to see me again.” Adonis did not meet her eyes. Instead, he stared at his fate closed in his palm.

“I could not let you go without saying goodbye once more,” she said gently. “Once you drink, there will be no place for farewells or apologies.”

His eyes were so blue when they looked up, so brilliant and clear. “I cannot stay here. I cannot go on without you, for my whole life has been you. It has always been you, Aphrodite.”

The admission was too little, too late. But they were past the time for arguments and in the threshold of goodbye.

So she smiled through her tears, her hands resting over his. “I will remember. I will remember our love and your face and all the trials and eons we have known together. I will remember you, Adonis. I will love you until the stars fade from the sky.”

Aphrodite held his face in her hands, and he opened his arms, holding her for the last time. She breathed him in, his scent she would never forget, like spring grass and sunshine. He touched her cheek, shifted his thumb, leaned in. And he kissed her with lips she knew so well.

“I have always loved you, Aphrodite.”

Always, but not forever. Loved but not enough.

Adonis opened his fist and uncorked the vial. He paused, their eyes connected. And her tears fell, her fingers pressed to her lips, holding back the pain, holding back her heart as it climbed her throat.

And then he tipped his head back and poured the Waters of Lethe into his open mouth. And when he swallowed, he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was gone.

Those eyes, the color of the ocean and the summer sky, were blank and clouded. He stood and walked away, never looking back, never seeing her fall to the ground, never hearing the sounds of her broken heart.