Hello, Goodbye, and Everything in Between(4)

And mostly, she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to survive all this without having Aidan on the other end of the phone.

Now she steps back from the wooden doors of the school with a defeated sigh.

“This,” she admits, “is not a great start.”

Aidan shrugs. “Who cares? I mean, don’t you think this is close enough?”

“Close enough isn’t good enough.”

“Of course not,” he says, rolling his eyes, but he follows her anyway as she makes her way along the building, past the staff parking lot and the auditorium and the whole east wing until they loop around to the back. Each time they pass another door, one of them jogs over to try it, but they’re all locked, every single one of them.

Finally, just behind the school, they stand at the ground floor window of Mr. Coady’s classroom, their hands cupped against the glass as they peer inside. The room is dark and quiet, the chalkboard wiped clean, the black tables coated in a thin layer of dust, the rocks and other samples stacked neatly in cases along the opposite wall.

“It looks different,” Aidan says. “Doesn’t it?”

Beside him, Clare nods. “It almost seems like it’s smaller or something.”

“That must be because we’re such big-time college students now,” Aidan says with a grin, and they both step back again. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get inside.”

She doesn’t answer him; instead, she lifts her gaze to the top of the enormous window, then runs her fingers along the edges before rapping on the glass.

“I wonder if—” she begins, but Aidan cuts her off.

“No way,” he says. “Don’t even say it.”

“I wonder if we could break in somehow,” she says, ignoring him.

“Are you kidding?”

She blinks at him. “Not entirely.”

“I don’t think this is exactly the right time for either of us to get arrested,” he says, the color rising in his cheeks, as it always does when he gets frustrated with her. “I have a feeling UCLA might frown upon that sort of thing, and I don’t need to give my dad another excuse to be disappointed in me. Not when I’m just about out of here.”

“Yeah, but—”

He holds up a hand, stopping her before she can continue. “I bet Dartmouth wouldn’t be too thrilled about it, either,” he reminds her, then gestures at the window. “Besides, we’re right here. I realize the phrase ‘close enough’ isn’t in your vocabulary, but why is this so important to you?”

“Because,” she says, holding out the piece of paper, which is now balled up in her hand, “because this is our last night. And it’s supposed to be perfect. And if we can’t even get this right…”

Aidan’s face softens. “This isn’t a metaphor,” he says. “If we don’t check off everything on this list, all that means is that we can roll with the punches. And that’s a good thing, you know?”

“You’re right,” she says, swallowing hard. “I know you’re right.”

But still, she feels inexplicably sad. Because of course Aidan would think that. He wants desperately for everything to work out between them. If he walked over a patch of sidewalk right now that read CLARE AND AIDAN SHOULD ABSOLUTELY BREAK UP TONIGHT in brightly colored chalk, he’d still manage to somehow explain it away, to turn it around and make it into something positive.

Maybe the world isn’t full of signs so much as it’s full of people trying to use whatever evidence they can find to convince themselves of what they hope to be true.

For Clare, it seems pretty clear that a start like this doesn’t bode well, and she feels a small glimmer of satisfaction at this: the prospect that she’s been right all along, and that now, even the universe agrees that the only logical thing to do is part ways with Aidan.

But this is followed by a powerful wave of grief over the thought of actually having to do this, and she inches closer to him, feeling a little unsteady.

Aidan circles his arms around her automatically, and they stand there like that for a moment. In the distance, a car engine roars to life, and a few birds cry out overhead. Around them, the sky is fading from blue to gray, the edges going blurry, and Clare presses her cheek against the soft cotton of Aidan’s shirt.

“Has anyone ever suggested that you might have some control issues?” he says with a smile, stepping back again. He takes the paper gently from her hand and smooths it out again. “Looks like this rules out number eight, too.”

“The fall formal,” she says with a nod. “Our first dance.”

“Right,” he says. “No chance of getting into the gym, either. Too bad I’m not allowed to be romantic, or else I’d make you dance with me right here.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “I’ve already seen your moves.”

“Not all of them. But don’t worry. The night is still young. I’m saving my best stuff for later.”

“I can’t wait,” she tells him, realizing just how much she means it.

Whatever happens later, they still have the rest of tonight.

And maybe that will be enough.

She links her arm with his, leaning into him as they start to walk back to the car. A breeze picks up, and for the first time Clare notices there’s a bite to it: an early hint of autumn. Normally, she loves this time of year, and for weeks now, whenever she’s told someone about Dartmouth, they’ve brought up the fall foliage in New Hampshire: the brilliant reds and yellows and oranges spread out over the campus and beyond. Clare has no doubt she’ll find it enchanting once she gets there. But right now, she doesn’t want to think about the coming of a new season. She just wants to live in this one for as long as she possibly can.