Always Have Summer - We-ll

He smiled. It was the same crooked smile from the dock, from nineteen, from the first moment I ever saw him and thought, Oh. There you are.

In the morning, I packed my bag. He made coffee. We stood in the kitchen, two people wearing the same regret like a borrowed shirt. We-ll Always Have Summer

“You could stay,” he said.

He nodded. He did know. That was the worst part. He knew about the job in Portland, the lease I’d signed, the life I’d built eight months of the year that did not include him. He knew because I had told him, every summer, over and over, like a prayer or a warning. He smiled

Because that was the deal. That was always the deal. In the morning, I packed my bag

“We’ll figure it out,” I said.