I don't recognize my street until Noah stops the car in front of his grandparents' house. There's a green real estate sign that I didn't notice before planted on the front lawn. And that seems odd because I read about the day the moving trucks came—a year and a half ago. I messaged Samantha from my front porch, crying, because they were taking the Dodges' furniture away.

She checked in with me the following day to see if I'd seen or heard from Noah—in the hope that he might've acknowledged my sixteenth birthday. He hadn't. Because it came after the phone call, after he cursed at me in the lunchroom.

The heartbreak I shared with Samantha in that conversation seemed genuine. And acute. I felt "abandoned" and "lost without him." That's why I don't understand—I can't imagine what motive I might possibly have had for wanting Noah to believe I was interested in another boy. 

He turns off the ignition. The engine coughs a few times before it concedes.

"What made you decide to start talking to me again?" I ask. "After the um, bad phone call."

Noah squints. Like he's trying to read my eyes through the dark sunglasses.

And maybe my question seems a little abrupt, because this is the first time I've spoken since my nervous breakdown in the school parking lot. I don't remember exactly what all I said to him then. Just that I was a ranting, sobbing mess. I guess I didn't realize how much I wanted Lindsay to be wrong about our parents' marital dysfunction. I needed to believe she was exaggerating—or flat out lying to me. Because that was easier to live with than the reality that not only are my parents considering a divorce, but they are working hard to hide it from me.

We're an entire family of liars now.

"I'm sorry," I say, taking off the glasses. My eyes are still a little sensitive but there are a ton of trees on this street, filtering the sunlight. "I didn't mean to be so dramatic."

"It was my fault," he says. "I shouldn't have been so blunt."

"How long have you known? I mean, I'm trying to ask when..." I shake my head. What am I trying to ask?

I take a breath. Exhale.

Okay. "After you got upset with me in the lunchroom, I told Samantha—in an IM conversation—the reason I asked you to come to my house. I wanted to talk about what was going on with my parents. I probably wanted your advice, right? Because your parents are divorced?"

Noah nods, but his face is kind of blank. Not in a zombie way, but like...maybe he's a little stunned by something I said?

"We started talking after you joined the swim team," he says, and his gaze shifts to something behind me. "Not right away, though. You were trying to act like everything was okay. Like it wasn't a huge deal that you quit running track. It didn't feel right not asking you what was going on. But you know, it didn't feel right to ask, either. So I ignored your fake smiles and just tried to..."

Noah's eyes touch briefly on mine and then drop to his hands, which are hovering, palms out. Like he's holding an imaginary ball. He shakes his head—meaning he can't explain, I guess, because he presses lips together and exhales a long sigh as his hands fall to his lap.

"It happened one day after swim practice," he says. "We ended up walking out to the parking lot at the same time and I could tell you'd been crying. That wasn't something I could ignore—I had to ask if you were all right. I was shocked as hell when you unloaded all that stuff about your parents arguing. I had no idea, Ally. When you invited me to your house that day..." His hands clench into fists. "I was a dumbass." 

"You're leaving something out," I say. "I don't understand why you reacted the way you did. Wasn't it like, a regular thing for you to come to my house?"

"Yeah, but you had this way about you. It felt like you were trying to mess with my head: one day you wanted to be with me, the next day you were with some other guy."

I'm not convinced there was another guy—because I was so obsessed with Noah—but I can't know that for sure.

"I wanted to be done with you," he says. "I tried. But that day after practice—after you told me you quit running because your dad stopped coming to your meets, even on the weekends—I felt like shit, because we were still friends when all that happened. You were crying in the parking lot because you'd been on the swim team for five weeks and your dad still hadn't noticed you'd quit track. That was five weeks of me knowing something was wrong, and I just..." His hands lift off his thighs and he shakes his head. "Like I said before, dumbass."

It's funny—in the weird-funny way. I thought I looked so confident in the swim team picture in my yearbook. But obviously that was a lie—I was hiding my feelings. "I should've told you," I say. "Back when we were still friends—why didn't I tell you?"

"I don't know, Ally. I don't think you meant to say everything you did that day in the parking lot. But I'm glad you did, 'cause that's how we ended up talking again. You sent me a text late that night, asking about my grandfather. I texted back and the conversation just kept going."

"Did we talk about the period of not-talking—about the phone call or the blow-up in the lunchroom?"

"No," he says. With a tone that asks, "Why the hell would we do that?" 

"But. Didn't you wonder who the..." I shake my head, remembering something he said at the ice cream shop: our complicated relationship is "ancient history" and Noah likes it that way. So no, he wouldn't have asked about the other boy. He would've wanted to keep moving forward.

"It was so great to finally be able to talk to someone," he says. "To the only person who could understand all the shit that was happening with my grandpa. Those texts from you were like a lifeline. I didn't want to mess that up."

I dig into my purse and fish out my phone. The only texts I have from Noah are recent. They start with the one I sent him from Faircrest. "Do you still have those messages," I ask. "Not that I don't believe you."

"I have them," he says. With a solemn nod, like he understands that I need to read them for myself.

His phone is buried under fast food receipts and a couple of one-dollar bills cluttering the little compartment between the front seats. He pokes at the screen and hands it to me. "I haven't deleted anything since the day you asked about Gramps." 

It's not the same as mine. His message bubbles are all grey. But I recognize the newest text—because I sent it to him this morning. So if I go back far enough, I should find messages I don't remember writing. I swipe my fingers impatiently over the screen, scrolling back until his phone offers to Load Earlier Messages, and I skim-read a conversation. It's me, telling Noah I'm in my car, parked across the street from his grandparent's house. His response seems weird. He makes it sound like it's perfectly normal, this oddly random report of my location.

But then I understand. I'm in my car because I don't want to be in my house. Because my parents are screaming at each other.

Ally: It's not even what they're saying. It's HOW they say it. It's like they're not the same people they were before we moved here.

Dodge: If it's any consolation (and it never was for me), Grandma used to tell me it was a good sign. She'd say, "Passion is passion." People don't yell at each other "with that kind of venom" when they've given up on the relationship.

Ally: I loved your grandma but no, that's not helping. Any other wise words?

Dodge: Nope. But I know what you're going through. I used to hide in our neighbor's tool shed. It happened so much, the lady that lived there starting leaving candy for me.

Ally: Omg! Are you serious?

Dodge: Yep. Those little bags of M&Ms.

Ally: I think that's the sweetest thing I've ever heard.

Dodge: Look in your glove box.

A new thread starts after that, with a new date—the day I told Noah I was thinking about applying for a lifeguarding job. "What was in the glove box?" I ask. Even though I'm pretty sure I know the answer. 

Noah's cheeks go splotchy red. "I uh, snuck a bag of Raisinets in there after the second time you called me like that." 

He says it like he's embarrassed—which is crazy, because it's the sweetest thing I've ever heard. I totally understand why I loved him before. But. I wish I remembered the feeling, so I could compare it to what I'm feeling right now.

"Sorry for the way I reacted earlier," he says. "When you mentioned the phone call."

"Yeah. I think I understand why you don't want to think about the past. But I kind of have to. I need to find my way out of the maze, but there are so many directions—like I think I might've been lying to you on the phone that day, because it just doesn't seem possible that there was another guy. But then why would I push you away after weeks of worrying about how closed off you were? It doesn't make sense, right? Because I know I was completely in love with you. That's the only part of this whole thing I'm sure of, because..."

I close my stupid rambling mouth and Noah smiles—he dream smiles and I get goose bumps. On my arms, my neck. Everywhere. But then he shakes his head and the beautiful smile fades. And I have to cross my arms against the chill.

"I can't say whether or not you were lying, Ally. But I don't think it does anyone any good to question that now."

"I have to question it because of Lindsay. She acts like...I don't know. Like she's pushing me to find something. Like there's some piece in the puzzle—some path or possibility I haven't explored—but I can't..."

I straighten my spine and try to shake the tension out my arms. If I try to think this out now, my headache is going to come back.

"Can we get out of the car?" I ask. "I need to move around, get some fresh air—if that's okay. The house looks..." Deserted. "Does anyone live here?"

"No, it's empty. The people who bought it from my grandfather had to move back up North."

Noah meets me in front of the ticking engine and leads me to a path of smooth, grey stones. We pass under a rose-covered arch, and it's like walking into a memory: a very recent one. The fountain here is completely different: a pedestal stacked with two weathered concrete bowls, holding water that's stagnant and thick with muck. It sits in the middle of a circular patio and there's a black iron bench—which is newer and less ornate than the one at Faircrest—but the overall effect is the same.

"This is like my favorite reading spot at rehab center," I say. "Except it's better, because it's not wedged between the main entrance and a giant parking lot."

"You were sitting there the day you asked me to visit. I wanted to get out of my car, but I was afraid you'd think I was a creep."

"I wouldn't have thought that," I say. But I don't know for sure if that's true. I just know I wouldn't think it now. "I wish I remembered. Your grandparents, I mean. And the time I spent here."

"Me too," he says. But then his eyes shift in a way that feels evasive. "The drain holes are clogged."

"What?"

He points to the fountain. "My dad drilled holes in the concrete so Grandma could use this as a planter, like a fountain of flowers. She changed them out religiously every spring and fall. That's how Gramps knew there was something seriously wrong with her. She bought orange and purple pansies that October, but she was too tired to plant them."

"I'm...so sorry for..."

Noah smiles like he knows—like he's always known—and it's sweet. But also a little uncomfortable, because I can't come up with a good reason, with any reason why I might have lied to Noah when he called me from Georgia. And if I keep digging—and I have to keep digging—there's a pretty good chance I'm going to find out that the version of me Noah is thinking about right now, really was messing with his head. 

"You changed out the flowers after she went into the hospital the first time," he says. "I wish you could've seen her face when I brought her out here and told her it was you."

I focus on the fountain. It's a sad, neglected mud mess. "We should clean it out," I say. "And plant flowers, so that whoever buys this house will know that..."

Noah is looking at me like... "I'm sorry," I say. "That was a weird thing to say, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. But only because I just found out—and I don't even know for sure that it's possible—but I think my dad might try to buy this house."

"Seriously?"

"My grandfather doesn't need to be in that assisted living place anymore—now that they've straightened out his medication—and Dad's always regretted selling this place. If he can get the financial part straightened out, he's going to make an offer. If it works out, he'll convert the formal living room into a bedroom for Gramps, and the three of us will live here."

"We'd be neighbors," I say.

"Yeah. Would that be weird?"

"Um..." I look at my flip-flops. Everything about this is weird. 

"You'd be welcome to read here anytime," he says. And his voice is so scratchy and soft that I have to look up. "I could drive you to school."

Noah's eyes drop—down and back up. Like maybe he's looking at my mouth?

Oh god.

There was something like this in one of the novels. The main character said this cute boy she liked glanced at her mouth when he was thinking about kissing her. She also said the boy's voice was like silk. But if I were going to compare Noah's tone to a fabric, it would be burlap. Scratchy and a little uncomfortable.

His eyes flick down again and stay there a moment longer. It feels like he's asking to kiss me, and weird or not, I can't help but think about what it might be like to have his lips pressed against mine. So If I really want this, then according to the books I read, all I have to do is lean in and he'll meet me halfway.

My stomach reacts to this thought. Very positively. So I do the lean.

And Noah takes a step back. "How's your head?" he asks.