"Come on, slow poke!" yelled John and drummed his fingers on the roof of his BMW impatiently.

"Relax, I'm coming," I huffed as I carried my Fool's Box to the car.

I did this every year: when school started, I brought a bunch of ridiculous stuff to college, erring in my conviction I would get to use it. Before breaks, then, I always took inventory, found that I had again fooled myself to exactly no one's surprise, and conceded to my lack of spare time only to take most of it back home. This time, apart from several nonfiction books, it was watercolors (!), an array of colored pencils, and knitting needles. In what world. I had started painting over summer break last year—not well, just for fun—but I should have known I would never ever find the time or state of mind to calmly sit down and paint at school.

John's confession a couple of weeks ago had felt like a breakthrough, for him and for me. Finally I knew what had been bothering him. All those times I had wondered if he was okay, there had been an explanation. And he had opened up to me. Apart from Zach and Devin, he had told no one at college. I was ashamed for not having noticed it sooner, but he had forbidden me from feeling guilty, so I was trying.

The day we were leaving for spring break in Maine was a good day. John was elated to catch a break from school. The only other time I had seen him like this had been for Thanksgiving break in New York. I could have gotten used to this version of him, at ease with himself and the world. Had I only seen him on days like this, I wouldn't have known he was going through something. At least he had agreed to finish out the year and take the summer to contemplate whether he'd return for the fall or not.

Perhaps out of selfishness, I urgently hoped he would. While I would naturally support any decision he made, I wasn't sure our relationship would be strong enough to survive that break. In any case, I tried to push aside these negative thoughts whenever they threatened to linger and enjoy whatever time I had with John, regardless of how long we would be together in the future.

"You told them we'd be there by 6, so we should hit the road. The navigation app says it's about 4 hours 15 and we'll have to take the highway across the mountains that's still snowed in." John's fingers tapped on the roof of his car.

"Did you look all of that up?"

"Well, I did have some spare time while you were busy packing up half of your room," he teased.

"You're even more anxious to get there than I am." I set the box into the trunk of his car before closing it.

It was so nice to be able to ride home with John instead of having to ask for a ride from a classmate I didn't know well or go on a Greyhound odyssey.

He shrugged. "I'm excited to meet your family."

I went around the car until I stood before him so I could peck him on the lips.

"I'm excited for you to meet them, too."

He gently brushed a lock of hair out of my face before jangling his keys and grinning.

"Then you better drag your cute butt into my car right now, or else I'll leave you here and party alone with Dad and Grampa."

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help but smile as I walked around the front of the car and got in on the passenger side.

***

"Yello!" I called out as I entered the house with my Fool's Box in hand and John tailing me.

"Hey, Peanut!" Dad called jovially from the stove.

"Hey, Dad. Is that the carcass of an animal you're frying in there?" I asked, setting down my box on the table next to the door, and pointed at the skillet on the burner.

"Sure is. You said John eats meat, right?"

John took the cue: "I do, don't worry."

He stepped around me and offered his hand to my dad.

"Pleasure to meet you, sir. I've heard so much about you."

Dad shook his hand. "The pleasure's all mine, John. I'm Peter."

Then he continued: "Dinner's almost ready, Grampa will be over in a minute. Peanut, why don't you show John to your room and he can drop off his bag."

John's eyes flicked from me to Dad, and I knew what he was thinking. He hadn't believed me when I had predicted this exact outcome. Us sharing a bed was definitely not something his parents would assume, even if we were together. They probably wouldn't bring it up if we did, but they wouldn't offer it. My dad wasn't anything like the overprotective father you saw on TV who worried about the innocence of his little princess and threatened her boyfriend to respect his house or else. We were adults, and Dad treated us as such. John and I had spent the night in each other's rooms at college several times, so why should this be any different?

"Um... okay."

Dad, not catching on, shot him a funny look.

"Come on, John, you can practice that dumbfounded expression upstairs." I smirked, picked up my box, and led the way up the steep staircase.

My room was to the left of the stairs, straight was the small bathroom, and to the right was the guest room. I entered my room first and set down my box on my desk. The cream-colored carpet had taken on more of a grayish color over the years. John stood in the doorframe and let his gaze wander around my childhood bedroom, from the desk right beside the door that was now rarely in use and therefore neat and tidy to the window and the sheer white curtains, from my spacious ornate oak armoire in the far left corner to my queen size bed which was pushed into the far right corner and covered with a flowered quilt Grammy had made.

"So this is your teenage room, huh?" He smiled.

"This is it." Does he like it?

"It's very you," he said. I arched my eyebrows. "You know, tidy, nice, practical, but homey."

My chest swelled. "Thanks," I said quietly and failed to hide my broad smile. After a moment, I added. "So are you okay with us sharing a bed?"

"I couldn't believe your dad doesn't care, but having met him now, he's almost convinced me."

I chuckled. "He'd tell you straight up if he did care."

John nodded, then smiled. "I'd love to stay here with you if that's alright."

The corners of my mouth wandered across my face. John meant a lot to me and my family and home meant a lot to me. Seeing these two worlds merge was strange, but wonderful.

John dropped his duffel in front of my dresser and peeked into the other bedroom and asked: "Did this use to be your sister's room?"

I nodded. "Before the accident. Then my parents moved up here, and when my mom and my sister moved out, Dad moved back downstairs. When Elsie comes to visit, Dad sleeps up here because she can't get up the stairs in her wheelchair."

"Whose room do you see when you look at it?"

His thoughtfulness stunned me for a moment. I let my gaze sweep the space. "It's been the guest room for a long time."

***

"So, Sam, you live across the street?" asked John politely.

Grampa confirmed this. "Three houses down on the other side. It's ideal for us. We don't get in each other's hair so much, but we get to be close, both literally and metaphorically."

I smiled. I did love our living arrangement at home. I had spent a lot of time at my grandparents' house as a child. When Grammy had passed away, Grampa had started spending a lot of time at our house, too. We had dinner together almost every night now. When I was home, that was. I wasn't sure what the two men did when I was away.

Tonight, Grampa had brought potato wedges while dad had made baked veggies and fried steaks for himself and John. When his vegetarian granddaughter was around, Grampa always pretended he ate little meat anyway, but that attitude usually only lasted a couple of days when I was home for the longer breaks. I would never make him renounce meat, but I appreciated that he was trying, even if he would eventually fail and forget about it until my next homecoming.

"It's a small town, so nowhere would be far from each other, but this is perfect," Grampa explained.

"Speaking of small town, Peanut, Gabriel is home this week, too. I ran into Betsy at the store this morning and she told me. Maybe you want to go say hi?"

"Or maybe not," I muttered under my breath. I answered John's questioning expression by explaining: "My high school boyfriend," which only turned his expression to bewilderment.

"Peter, I don't think they're particularly keen on spending time with her ex-boyfriend."

I shot Grampa a grateful glance. People could say what they wanted about my grandfather: he could only cook three recipes, vacuuming was his least favorite chore, and he had a tendency to speak too loudly when it got late, but his sensitivity outshined not only his son's, but also his granddaughter's.

"Why don't you give John a tour of our little town here?" he suggested instead.

"That sounds nice," replied John. He, too, was grateful not to have a hangout with Gabriel.

***

After dinner, we helped clear the table before Grampa shooed us into our coats and out the door. It was dark already, of course, but I liked my hometown at night. Its lights certainly weren't as dazzling as those of New York where John had taken me, but the stars in the clear night sky gave those city lights a run for their money.

I relished showing John where I grew up. Pointing out the house in which Sarah Orne Jewett, a well-known literary regionalism writer of the 19th century, had lived, I complained that we had had to read her work in English class almost every single year which had been straining, even if vaguely relatable.

We crossed the river via the cemented bridge and I identified the highest water marks I had seen throughout all those years of living there. Next we walked up the hill and past the chain-link fence of the Academy, a fancy, rich-in-tradition, stuck-up prep school at which Sarah Orne Jewett was educated, too. The sight of the huge property including everything from tennis courts to a dance studio, a fully-equipped gym, a pool, and an athletic clinic didn't wow John like it would many people. Of course. He knew places like this, he had attended one himself. Then I led him back to the residential part of town to head back home.

All the while, John held my gloved hand in his. The gesture made me feel ten years older, but at the same time as young as ever, as if I were walking in less gravity and might jump off the ground at some point. With a different person, I might have been glad knowing that our touch would be obscured from sight by the darkness. But with John, I didn't care if the townspeople saw us. I didn't need to hide him away. I didn't want to.

When we turned back onto my street, I suddenly stopped in my tracks.

"What?" asked John, but before I could explain, a familiar voice called my name. I took a deep breath. He was out for a run, pulled his earphones out, and came to a halt about 4 feet away.

"Hey, Gabe," I finally said, keeping my eyes fixed on him to ignore John's reaction, though I did feel him shifting his hand around mine to gain a better grip.

"Hey, Grace! Mom told me you would be home for the week, too. She ran into your dad at the store."

"Yeah, he told me the same." I nervously brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. After a short eternity, I added: "Gabe, this is my boyfriend, John" and turned my body toward the latter.

Gabriel politely stuck out his bare hand to shake John's gloved one before pulling his eyes back to me.

"I didn't know you were seeing anyone." He tried in vain to hide his surprise. "Your dad didn't mention it, I don't think."

I smiled. He and Dad had always gotten along splendidly. "Then, finally, all of my training has paid off."

Gabriel now broke into a grin, too. "Remember when he thought for whatever reason that we had broken up and then Mom called Grampa in a frenzy to ask if it was true?"

"I do. Grampa was flabbergasted when he asked me about it." Stop exchanging anecdotes with your ex in front of your boyfriend. As soon as my brain gave me that advice, I wiped the smile off my face. A few seconds of silence passed. "Anyway, I showed John around town, but we should get back inside."

"Yeah, okay," Gabriel replied, then added: "Do you guys maybe want to hang out sometime this week?"

"Um... I don't know yet. We might be busy."

"Alright, let me know. You've got my number." He showed off his charming smile, waved at me and nodded at John, and was back on his run.

John looked at him over his shoulder until Gabriel had rounded the corner.

"Wow," he concluded.

"Care to expand on that?" I questioned and pulled him along.

"He calls him 'Grampa'?"