We-ll Always - Have Summer

I picked up my duffel. The screen door whined. On the porch, the first yellow leaf of September had landed on the railing, delicate as a warning.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he said. “I only know I’ve never been more myself than I am with you, in this place, in July. And I think that has to count for something. Even if it doesn’t have a name.”

“Then let’s not waste this,” he said. We-ll Always Have Summer

He was quiet for a long time. Then he reached across the table and took my hand—not desperately, not romantically. Just held it, like a fact.

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. I picked up my duffel

So I put the bag down. I walked back into the kitchen. I took the coffee from his hand, set it on the counter, and kissed him again—not like a goodbye this time. Like a beginning.

“You know I can’t,” I said.

“I’m always thinking it.”