But he doesn’t.
But the words get stuck behind the lump in your throat. Stay -2005-
The year is 2005. The air smells of rain on hot asphalt, cheap cherry lip gloss, and the faint, sweet burn of clove cigarettes. You’re seventeen, and you’re standing in the gravel driveway of a house you’ve only been to twice before. His name is Cole. He has shaggy brown hair that falls into his eyes and a carabiner clipped to his belt loop, holding keys to a Jeep he rebuilt himself. But he doesn’t
“Phoenix is a desert,” you say, like it’s an accusation. The air smells of rain on hot asphalt,
“Yeah. That’s the point.” He kicks a loose pebble. It skitters under the U-Haul. “No memories there.”
He hugs you. It’s clumsy. His chin digs into your shoulder. He smells like gasoline and laundry detergent and something else—something that’s just him . You close your eyes and memorize it. The way his heart beats against your ribs. The way his fingers press into the small of your back.