who were performing at some third-tier music awards show.
They’d just brilliantly lip-synced their way through “It’s Gotta Be You,” when someone knocked.
It was almost eleven o’clock, too late for visitors, and I felt a shiver of nerves as I opened the door.
It was Davis, wearing a plaid button-down and skinny jeans. He was holding a huge box.
“Um, hi,” I said. “This is for you,” he told me, and handed me the box, which wasn’t as heavy as I expected.
I carried it inside and placed it on our dining room table, and when I turned back, he was already walking away.
“Wait,” I said. “Come here.” I reached my hand out for his. He took it, and we walked together into my backyard.
The river was swollen, and you could hear it churning down there in the darkness somewhere.
The air felt warm on the skin of my forearms as I lay down on the ground beneath the big ash tree in our backyard.
He lay down next to me, and I showed him what the sky looked like from my house, all split up by the branches that were just beginning to sprout leaves.
He told me that he and Noah were moving, to Colorado, where Noah had gotten into some boarding school for troubled kids.
Davis would finish high school out there, at a public school. They’d rented a house.
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