I didn’t want to go to the reunion. That’s important to say upfront, because what happened wasn’t my idea, wasn’t my plan, and definitely wasn’t something I saw coming. I’m 32. I’m a pharmacist.
I own a small pharmacy in the same town where I grew up, which makes me either sentimental or lacking in ambition, depending on who you ask. My life is simple. I wake up at six, open the pharmacy ateight, count pills, fill prescriptions, counsel patients, fight with insurance companies, close at ten, go home, sleep, repeat. People need their medications.
I make sure they get them. That’s enough for me. The truth is, I’m lonely. Have been for years, but I’m too busy to do anything about it.
My last relationship ended four years ago. She wanted someone with normal hours, someone who could take weekends off, someone who wasn’t married to his job. I couldn’t be that person, so she left and I stayed counting pills. The invitation came in August.
Westfield High School, class of 2009, fifteen-year reunion. I stared at it for a full minute before throwing it in the trash. Fifteen years. I’d graduated fifteen years ago, which meant I was old, or at least older than I felt.
I had no interest in going. Seeing people I hadn’t talked to in over a decade, making small talk about careers and marriages and kids, pretending my life was more interesting than it was. "You’re going," Jake said. He’s my best friend since middle school, currently sitting in my pharmacy after hours, eating chips from the convenience store next door and giving me unsolicited life advice.
I’m not going, I replied, counting inventory without looking at him. You’re going. Jake, I have inventory to finish, prescriptions to prep for tomorrow, a whole system to update. Excuses.
Valid reasons, Lucas. He waited until I looked at him. When was the last time you did something that wasn’t work? I’m talking to you right now.
I’m in your pharmacy after hours while you work. This doesn’t count. I went back to counting. I’m busy.
You’re hiding. I’m not hiding. I’m running a business. So, you’re thirty-two.
You work seven days a week. You haven’t been on a date in four years. You live above your pharmacy. You’re hiding.
The apartment is convenient, I said. The apartment is sad, he said. I set down my clipboard. What do you want from me?
I want you to go to the reunion. See some old friends. Remember you’re a human being with a life outside of beta blockers and statins. I hate reunions.
You’ve never been to one. Exactly. Because I hate them. Lucas, I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.
I don’t need to go to some reunion to prove I have a life. Then prove it by going. That’s circular logic. It’s friendship.
There’s a difference. I sighed and looked at the invitation in the trash. Who’s even organizing this? Committee of volunteers.
I didn’t respond. Jake shifted uncomfortably. Some people from our class. Rachel Kim, Tyler something, others.
Rachel Kim? I raised an eyebrow. She hated high school. Why would she organize a reunion?
Maybe she’s nostalgic. Rachel nostalgic. She moved to Seattle the day after graduation and swore she’d never come back. People change.
Not that much. Jake stood and brushed chip crumbs off his shirt. Just think about it. Okay?
It might be fun. Doubtful, but possible, I admitted. Barely. He headed for the door, then turned back.
You know what your problem is? You work all the time because it’s safe, predictable. But life isn’t supposed to be safe. It’s supposed to be lived.
That’s very profound. Did you get that from a motivational poster? I’m serious. So am I.
I’m fine, Jake. Really? He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. Okay, but if you change your mind, it’s September fourteenth, seven p.
m. Westfield Event Hall. I won’t change my mind. We’ll see.
He left and I went back to counting pills. Two weeks later, Jake was back. You’re going, he said. No, I’m not asking.
I’m telling. You’re going. Jake, I already RSVP’d for you. I stopped mid-count.
You what? You’re going. It’s done. Accept it.
You can’t just—
I can. I did. You’re going. Why do you care so much?
He hesitated just for a second, then said, Because you’re my best friend and you’re wasting your life in this pharmacy, and I’m tired of watching it happen. I’m not wasting—
When was the last time you were happy? Really genuinely happy. Not satisfied with your profit margins happy.
Not solved a drug interaction happy. Actually happy. I opened my mouth, closed it, because I didn’t have an answer. Exactly, Jake said.
So, you’re going September fourteenth, seven p. m. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty. Wear something that isn’t a polo shirt with your pharmacy logo on it.
All my shirts have the pharmacy logo, I said. Then buy a new shirt. This is ridiculous, I said, but he left before I could argue more. September fourteenth arrived too quickly.
I stood in my apartment, which yes, is above the pharmacy and, yes, is kind of sad, staring at my closet. Jake was right. Everything I owned had the pharmacy logo on it except one shirt, a blue button-down I’d bought three years ago for my cousin’s wedding. I’d worn it once.
It still fit, barely. I put it on and looked in the mirror. I looked like a pharmacist trying to pretend he wasn’t a pharmacist, which was accurate. My phone buzzed.
Jake was outside. I grabbed my keys, locked up, walked downstairs. He looked me up and down. You look good.
I look uncomfortable. Just get in. I got in. You ready?
He asked. No. Perfect, he said. Let’s go.
Westfield Event Hall was nicer than I expected. Not some sad gymnasium with crepe paper and a DJ. An actual venue. String lights, real tables, a bar.
This must have cost a fortune, I said. Yeah, Jake said, parking. Pretty elaborate, I said. How many people RSVP’d?
I don’t know. Forty, fifty out of three hundred graduates. Not everyone stays in touch. We walked in.
The place was already filling up. People I vaguely recognized, older versions of faces. Same eyes, different hairlines. Rachel Kim appeared looking exactly the same except more professional.
Blazer, confident smile. You came, she said. Jake RSVP’d for me. Smart man, she said, hugging me.
It’s so good to see you. You too. I’m surprised you organized this. I thought you hated high school.
She laughed. I did, but nostalgia is a powerful thing. Since when are you nostalgic? Since—she glanced at Jake, and something passed between them—since I realized some things are worth revisiting.
Weird, I said. Well, enjoy. Drinks at the bar, food tables in back, name tags at the front. I found mine.
Lucas Bennett, class of 2009. Pinned it on. Felt ridiculous. Jake found his.
You want a drink? Desperately, I said. Beer. Whatever’s strongest.
He laughed and disappeared into the crowd. I stood there awkward, alone, regretting every life choice that led me here. Lucas Bennett? A guy I vaguely recognized approached.
Derek Foster. We’d been in chemistry together. Derek, hey man, it’s been forever. What are you up to?
I’m a pharmacist. Own a place here in town. That’s awesome. I’m in sales, pharmaceuticals, actually.
Small world, very small. We made small talk for ten minutes. His job, my job, the thrilling world of medications. Then someone else came over, then another person, and I realized this wasn’t as terrible as I’d expected.
People were friendly, curious, normal. Maybe Jake was right. Maybe I needed this. I was starting to relax when I heard it.
A laugh. Not just any laugh. A specific laugh, one I’d recognize anywhere. I turned and saw her.
Hannah Moore. Fifteen years since I’d last seen her, and she looked exactly the same but different, better, more confident, hair longer, smile still the same. She was talking to a group near the bar, animated, hands moving, telling some story, people laughing. She’d always been able to do that.
Make people laugh. Make people feel like they were the most interesting person in the room. I’d been in love with her for all of senior year. Never told her.
Never even came close. She was Hannah Moore, artist. Always surrounded by people. Always going somewhere.
Always too far out of reach for someone like me. And I was Lucas Bennett. Science nerd. Quiet.
Boring. I’d thought about asking her out a hundred times. Never did. Then we graduated and she left town and I stayed and that was that.
I hadn’t thought about her in years. Or at least I tried not to. Lucas? You okay?
Jake was back holding two beers, looking at me with concern. Yeah, I’m fine, I said. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I gestured vaguely toward Hannah.
She’s here. Jake looked. Who? Hannah.
Hannah Moore. Jake’s expression changed to something I couldn’t read. Oh, yeah, he said. She’s here.
Did you know she’d be here? I might have heard she was coming. Jake, what? Why didn’t you tell me?
Would you have come if I did? No. Exactly, he said, handing me a beer. Drink.
Relax. It’s fine. It’s not fine. I haven’t seen her in fifteen years.
Then go say hi. I can’t just—
You can, he said. Or you can watch. Then he raised his voice.
Hannah. She turned, saw Jake, smiled, walked over. Oh, God,I said under my breath. Jake, I didn’t know you’d be here, she said.
Wouldn’t miss it, he said, hugging her, then gesturing to me. You remember Lucas? She looked at me and smiled. That same smile.
Warm, genuine, like she was actually happy to see me. Lucas Bennett, of course. How are you? I’m good, I said.
You good? Really good. It’s been forever. Fifteen years.
Has it really been that long? She laughed. God, we’re old. Speak for yourself, Jake said.
I’m aging like wine. You’re aging like milk, she shot back. But I love you anyway. They’d always had this easy banter.
Jake had dated Hannah’s best friend junior year, so we’d all hung out. Movies, lunch, groups, but I’d always been on the periphery, watching, wishing I was braver. So, what are you up to these days? Hannah asked me.
I’m a pharmacist. Own a place in town. That’s amazing, she said. I always thought you’d do something medical.
You were brilliant in chemistry. I wasn’t brilliant. I just studied a lot. Same thing, she said.
She turned to Jake. And you? Accounting. Boring.
Tell us about you. I heard you’re a photographer now. Yeah, she said. Freelance.
I travel a lot. Documentaries, editorial, whatever pays. That’s incredible. I meant it.
It’s fun, she said. Exhausting, but fun. I’m actually in town for a bit between jobs. First time in months I’ve been home for more than a week.
How long are you staying? Jake asked. Six weeks, she said. Then I’m off to Patagonia for three months.
Patagonia? I repeated. That’s far. Very far, she said, but beautiful.
I can’t wait. Of course she was leaving. She was always leaving. That’s who Hannah was.
A bird never landing. Always flying somewhere more interesting. We talked for a few more minutes. Safe topics.
Work, town, changes since high school. Then someone called her name. I should, she said, gesturing. But it was really good to see you both.
You too, I said. She smiled, touched my arm briefly, and walked away. I watched her go. Jake watched me watch her.
Still got it bad, huh? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Lucas, come on. It’s been fifteen years and you lit up like a Christmas tree the second you saw her.
I did not. You absolutely did, he said. I took a long drink of beer. Doesn’t matter.
She’s leaving in six weeks, off to Patagonia to live her exciting life while I count pills. You say that like it’s a bad thing. It’s not bad. It’s just not exciting.
Maybe she doesn’t want exciting. She literally travels the world for a living. Doesn’t mean that’s what makes her happy, he said. I looked at him.
What are you doing? What do you mean? Why do you care so much about this? Because you’re my best friend,and you’ve been half alive since graduation.
And maybe, just maybe, seeing Hannah again is exactly what you need. Or, I countered, it’s exactly what I don’t need. A reminder that I stayed while everyone else left. You didn’t just stay, he said.
You built something. Before I could respond, the lights dimmed. Rachel was at a microphone. Hi, everyone, she said.
Welcome to our fifteen-year reunion. We’re so glad you’re here. Applause. We have some fun activities planned, she continued.
But first, let’s do some mingling. We’ve got name tags at the frontif you haven’t grabbed yours. And we’ve assigned some seating for dinner just to mix things up a bit. Check the board to find your table.
Assigned seating at a reunion. That was weird. People started moving toward a board by the entrance. I followed.
Found my name. Table Seven. Lucas Bennett, Hannah Moore, Derek Foster, Mia Santos, Tyler Brennan, Sarah Johnson. I stared.
Hannah was at my table. Specifically seated next to me,based onthe diagram. Interesting, Jake said behind me. I turned.
Did you—
I had nothing to do with this, Jake swore, but he grinned. Convenient, right? This was too much. The reunion, the venue, the assigned seating.
Something was going on. But I didn’t have time to figure out what,because Hannah appeared next to me, looking at the board. Oh, we’re at the same table, she said. Yeah, looks like it.
That’s fun. Come on, let’s grab seats. She walked toward table seven. I followed,because what else was I going to do?
Table seven was in the middle of the room. Prime real estate. Not too close to the speakers, not too far from the bar. Hannah sat down.
I sat next to her. The others filtered in. Mia Santos, I remembered her vaguely from yearbook committee. Tyler Brennan, tech guy, always been smart.
Derek, I’d already talked to. Sarah Johnson, quiet, debate team. This is nice, Hannah said, looking around. They really went all out.
Yeah, I said. Almost too nice. What do you mean? For a class reunion?
This is a lot. This venue isn’t cheap. Maybe they fundraised. Maybe, I said.
Dinner was served. Catered actual food, not just snacks. This was elaborate. I looked around, tried to spot Jake, found him at table three talking to Rachel.
Both glancing our way. When they saw me looking, they quickly looked away. Definitely weird. So, Hannah said, tell me about the pharmacy.
When did you open it? Three years ago, I said. After working at a chain for five years. Saved up, took the leap.
That’s brave, she said. Or stupid. Brave. Starting a business is terrifying.
You freelance? That’s basically the same thing. True, she said, but at least I can fail quietly. You have employees, customers, responsibilities.
Three employees,and they’re part-time. It’s not exactly a corporation. Still, she said, you’re keeping people healthy. That matters.
You’re capturing the world. That matters more. She tilted her head. Why does one have to matter more?
Can’t they both matter? I guess, I said. But traveling the world, seeing incredible things—that’s a life. And helping your community, being there for people—that’s not a life.
I didn’t have an answer. She smiled. I think you underestimate what you do. I think you’re being generous.
I think you’re being self-deprecating. I’m being realistic. You’re being pessimistic. She leaned back.
Lucas, you own a pharmacy. You help people every single day. That’s incredible. Don’t diminish it.
I’m not. You are. You did it in high school, too. Always downplaying your accomplishments.
You were top of our class in chemistry,and you acted like it was nothing. You remember that? Of course, I said. You helped me pass, she said.
I would have failed without your tutoring. You didn’t need tutoring. You were smart. I was creative.
Different kind of smart. But chemistry? I was drowning. You saved me.
I just explained some concepts for three months, I said. Every Tuesday and Thursday in the library. You were patient, kind, never made me feel stupid. I’d forgotten about that.
Or tried to. Those tutoring sessions, sitting across from Hannah, trying to focus on covalent bonds while she played with her pen, laughed at my terrible jokes, looked at me with those eyes. I’d been so in love with her. I’m glad it helped, I said.
It did more than you know. We looked at each other,and for a moment,it was senior year again. The library,the chemistry textbook between us,the feeling that maybe,just maybe,she felt it too. Then Mia spoke.
So Hannah,how long are you in town? The moment broke. Six weeks, Hannah answered. Then off to Patagonia.
That’s so cool, Mia said. I follow your Instagram. Your photos are incredible. Thank you.
Do you ever get lonely traveling so much? Hannah hesitated. Sometimes, she said, but the work is worth it. Do you have someone?
A partner? Mia,Hannah laughed. Subtle. I’m just curious.
No, no partner, she said. Hard to maintain a relationship when you’re gone eight months a year. What about you,Lucas? Tyler asked.
You seeing anyone? Everyone looked at me. Uh,no, I said. Too busy with the pharmacy.
Come on,Derek said. You can’t be that busy. I’m open seven days a week, I said. Sixty hours minimum.
That’s a lot,Hannah said. It’s necessary. Is it? Or is it an excuse?
I looked at her. Excuse for what? For not having a life. I have a life.
Do you? The table went quiet. She wasn’t being mean,just honest,and she was right. I have a life,I repeated,less convincing.
Okay,she said,smiling. Then tell me,what do you do for fun? I read sometimes,when I’m not too tired. What else?
I watch TV. What else? I work. That’s not fun.
That’s work. Sometimes they overlap. Lucas,she leaned forward. When was the last time you did something just because you wanted to?
Not because you had to. Not because it was responsible. Just because it brought you joy. I thought about it.
Couldn’t remember. Exactly,she said softly. You’re hiding,just like I am. You’re not hiding, I said.
You’re traveling the world. I’m running,she said,picking at her food. I’m always moving because if I stop,I have to think about what I’m running from. What are you running from?
The same thing you are. Connection. Vulnerability. The risk of staying in one place long enough to care about something.
Someone. The table was silent. Everyone pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. Well,I said finally.
This got deep fast,she laughed. Sorry. Occupational hazard. Photographers see too much.
Start overthinking everything. We’re both messed up completely. Completely. Want to be messed up together?
I blinked. What? Friends,she said. Let’s be friends for the next six weeks before I leave.
Hang out. Do things that aren’t work. Remind each other we’re human. Unless you’re too busy counting pills.
I’m not, I said. Then it’s settled,she said. We’re friends,starting now. She stuck out her hand.
I shook it. Her hand was warm,small,fit perfectly in mine. Friends,I agreed,and tried to ignore the way my heart was racing. After dinner, there were activities.
Icebreaker games. Trivia about our senior year. A slideshow of old yearbook photos. Every single one designed to keep people mingling,moving,interacting.
During the trivia round,I noticed something. Every question seemed designed to make Hannah and me work together. What was the theme of the two thousand nine spring art show? Hannah knew.
I didn’t. What was the chemical formula discussed in Mr. Patterson’s infamous safety lecture? I knew.
She didn’t. What song played at every single school dance senior year? We both knew. Answered at the same time.
Laughed. After the fifth question like this,I leaned over to Hannah. Is it just me,or is this weirdly specific? Right,she said.
Like they’re tailoring questions to our table. Or to us specifically. She looked around. Why would they do that?
I have no idea,I said,but I was starting to have suspicions. I caught Jake’s eye across the room. He quickly looked away. Rachel was at the microphone announcing the next activity,but she kept glancing at our table,specifically at me and Hannah.
Mia was on her phone,smiling,texting rapidly. Tyler was watching us with barely concealed amusement. Derek looked confused but amused. Something was going on.
Lucas,Hannah whispered. I think—
Yeah,me too. Should we? Not yet, I said.
Let’s see where this goes. She grinned. You’re curious,aren’t you? Extremely.
The next activity was a dance floor. DJ playing throwback hits from our high school years. People started dancing awkwardly. The way adults dance when they’re trying to recapture youth.
Oh god,Hannah said. I forgot about this part. The dancing, I said. The bad dancing.
We could skip it. We could,she said,looking at the floor,then at me. Or we could ironically participate. Ironically, I said.
Embrace the cringe. Own it. I don’t dance. Everyone dances,she said.
Some people just haven’t admitted it yet. I really don’t. She grabbed my hand and pulled me up. Come on.
It’ll be fun. That’s what people say before something terrible. Exactly,she said. Live dangerously.
She dragged me to the dance floor. A two-thousands pop song was playing. Something that had been everywhere senior year. Hannah started dancing,unself-consciously,laughing.
I stood there awkwardly. Lucas,she said. Move. This is moving.
That’s swaying. That’s what you do in an earthquake. Dance. I don’t know how.
She grabbed my hands and started moving them. Just feel the music. I’m feeling the embarrassment. That means you’re doing it right.
Despite myself,I laughed and started moving badly,awkwardly,but she was right. It was fun. We danced through three songs,laughing,making fun of other people,making fun of ourselves. At some point,a slow song came on.
The energy shifted. Couples paired up,swaying. Hannah and I stood there. We could sit this one out,I offered.
Or,she said,stepping closer. We’re friends,right? Friends can dance. She put her arms around my neck,loose,casual.
I put my hands on her waist,carefully,appropriately. We swayed. It was nice. More than nice.
It felt right. This isn’t so bad,she said. No,it’s not. You’re a better dancer than you think.
I’m literally just swaying. But you’re swaying with confidence now. I laughed. That’s setting the bar very low.
We danced in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Hannah said,Can I ask you something? Sure. Why didn’t you ever ask me out in high school?
I almost tripped. What? Senior year,she said. We hung out all the time.
Studied together. I thought—I thought maybe you liked me,but you never said anything. My heart was pounding. I—I didn’t think you’d say yes.
Why not? Because you were you,and I was me. What does that mean? You were Hannah Moore, I said.
Always surrounded by people. Always interesting. Always going somewhere. And you were Lucas Bennett,she said.
Brilliant. Kind. Funny when you relaxed. Why wouldn’t I have said yes?
I stared at her. Are you saying—
I’m saying,I waited for months for you to ask,and you never did. Hannah,it’s okay. It was a long time ago.
But I always wondered why you didn’t. Because I was scared, I said. Because I thought you were too good for me. Because I was an idiot.
She smiled. Sad. We were both idiots. Yeah.
For what it’s worth,she said,I would have said yes in a heartbeat. The song ended. We stopped swaying,but neither of us let go. We stood there looking at each other.
Fifteen years of what-ifs hanging between us. Hannah,Lucas,there you guys are. Mia appeared,beaming,having fun. The moment shattered.
Yeah,Hannah said,stepping back. Lots of fun. Great,because we’re doing karaoke next,and we need volunteers. Absolutely not,I said.
Come on,it’ll be fun. That’s what you said about dancing. And you danced,she said. Growth.
Hannah laughed. I’ll do karaoke if Lucas does. I’m not doing karaoke. Scared,she said.
Probably. Terrified of singing in public. Yes. What if I promise it’ll be terrible?
That doesn’t help. Sure it does. No pressure to be good. We’re embracing the cringe,remember?
I looked at her,at that smile,those eyes,and I knew I was going to say yes,because I was weak,and because I’d do anything to keep her smiling at me like that. Fine,I said. One song. Yes,she said.
Mia pulled out her phone and texted rapidly. Who was she texting? Come on,Hannah grabbed my hand again,and I let her lead me to the karaoke setup. We sang Don’t Stop Believing,badly,on purpose.
The entire room joined in on the chorus. It was ridiculous,embarrassing,perfect. Afterwards,breathless from laughing,we went outside for air. The patio was quieter.
String lights overhead. Cool September evening. Hannah leaned against the railing. That was the most fun I’ve had in months,she said.
Months,I repeated. You travel the world. Yeah,she said. And it’s beautiful.
Incredible. But it’s also lonely. I’m always the outsider,the observer,never really part of anything. She looked at me.
Tonight I felt included. Part of something. Does that make sense? Yeah,it does.
You’re easy to be around,Lucas,she said. You always were. You too. She smiled.
We wasted a lot of time,didn’t we,in high school? Yeah,maybe,I said. Or maybe we weren’t ready. And now,she said.
Now we’re friends for six weeks,right? Friends. We looked at each other. And then,finally,after fifteen years,I kissed her.
It was soft,tentative,testing. She kissed back,deeper,certain,and everything else fell away. The reunion,the future,just us. Finally,when we pulled apart,we were both smiling.
That was,she started. Overdue,I finished. By about fifteen years,give or take. She laughed and rested her forehead against mine.
We went back inside hand in hand,and the entire room erupted,cheering,applauding. Actual applause. I stopped. What?
Jake appeared,grinning. Finally. Rachel was crying. Actually crying.
Happy tears. Mia was jumping up and down. Tyler was filming on his phone. Derek looked confused but supportive.
What is happening? Hannah asked. Operation Cupid,Mia announced. Success.
Operation what? I looked at Jake. Jake,what did you do? He raised his hands.
Innocent. We may have organized this entire reunion,specifically to get you two together. What? The entire reunion?
Hannah repeated. Rachel stepped forward. Not the entire class. Just forty people.
Friends. People who knew you both,who’ve been watching you idiots pine for each other for fifteen years. We don’t pine,I started. You absolutely pine,Tyler said.
I have screenshots. Lucas,you mentioned Hannah in conversation forty-seven times in the last five years. I counted. Hannah,uh,Mia added.
You compare every guy you date to Lucas. Every single one. I do not. You literally said,and I quote,he’s nice,but he doesn’t make me laugh like Lucas did.
That was two months ago,about a guy you’d been dating for six months. Hannah’s face went red. So,Jake continued,we decided to take matters into our own hands. Organized a reunion.
Made sure you both came. Assigned seating. Coordinated activities. Even bribed the DJ to play specific songs.
The slow dance song,Hannah realized. From the one school dance you both attended senior year,Rachel confirmed. You danced together then,too. Briefly.
We thought it might trigger something. You people are insane,I said. We’re committed,Jake corrected. We’ve been planning this for six months,Mia said proudly.
Group chat. Strategy sessions. Backup plans. This was a military operation.
Show them,Tyler said. Rachel pulled out her phone and showed us a group chat. Operation Cupid. Four hundred fifty-seven messages.
Detailed plans. Contingencies. Analysis of our personalities. Predictions of how we’d react.
You,she said,scrolling through. You hired a venue,catered food,a DJ,all to get you two together,Jake finished. Worth every penny. How much did this cost?
Hannah asked. Don’t worry about it,Rachel said quickly. We pulled resources. It’s fine.
You spent thousands of dollars to fix a fifteen-year-old mistake. Yes,she said. And we’d do it again. I looked at Hannah.
She looked at me. And we both started laughing,because it was insane. Completely,utterly insane,but also kind of perfect. You’re all insane,Hannah said.
Certifiably,I agreed. But Hannah squeezed my hand. Thank you,she said. This is the craziest,sweetest thing anyone’s ever done.
The reunion wound down around midnight. People left,hugging,promising to stay in touch,actually meaning it this time. Hannah and I stood in the parking lot. So,she said.
So our friends are completely unhinged. Completely. But they’re not wrong about us. No,they’re not.
She looked up at me. Tomorrow,dinner,she said. Real date. Your choice of restaurant.
I’ll pick somewhere without our insane friends watching. Good luck,she said. I think they have us tracked. She kissed me.
Soft,sweet. Good night,Lucas. Good night,Hannah. She walked to her car.
I watched her go. Jake appeared beside me. You’re welcome. I can’t believe you organized an entire fake reunion.
Worth it? I thought about Hannah’s smile,her laugh,the way her hand felt in mine. Yeah,I said. Worth it.
Told you,he said. You’re still insane. That’s why we’re friends. Over the next six weeks,I learned what it meant to actually have a life outside the pharmacy.
Hannah and I had dinner three times a week,real dates,where I closed the pharmacy on time,and she didn’t schedule evening shoots. We went hiking,to museums,to terrible movies,which we laughed through. We talked about everything. Her travels,my pharmacy,our fears,our dreams.
She told me about the loneliness of always moving. How she’d used travel to avoid dealing with the fact that she was scared of staying,scared of commitment,scared of being known. I told her about hiding behind work,how I’d used the pharmacy as an excuse to avoid risk,avoid vulnerability,avoid the possibility of being hurt. We were both running,just in different directions.
What if we stopped running? She asked one night,week three,sitting on my couch above the pharmacy,eating takeout. What do you mean? What if I stayed,she said.
Not forever. But more. What if I took local jobs,spent more time here? You’d hate that, I said.
You love traveling. I do love traveling,she said,but I’m tired of running. Hannah,I don’t want this to end in three weeks. Do you?
No,she said,but you have Patagonia. That’s your job. I could cancel,she said. Don’t.
Don’t give up opportunities for me. What if I’m not giving up? She said. What if I’m choosing?
You’d resent me eventually. Would I? Or would I resent myself for letting you go again? I didn’t have an answer.
She leaned against me. I’m not saying I’ll stop traveling,she said. I’m saying maybe I don’t have to travel eight months a year. Maybe I find balance here,with you.
What if it doesn’t work? What if it does? Six weeks after the reunion,I drove Hannah to the airport. Her bags were packed.
Camera equipment. Cold weather gear. Three months’ worth of her life. We stood at security.
This is harder than I thought,she said. Same. We’ll FaceTime every day. Every day?
I agreed. And I’ll send photos. Tons of photos. I’ll send you pictures of pill bottles.
She laughed through tears. I’d love that. Hannah,don’t say goodbye,I said. Say see you soon.
See you soon. Three months. Three months. She kissed me,long,deep,like she was memorizingthe feeling.
Then she pulled away,grabbed her bags,walked through security,turned back once,waved,and disappeared. I stood there until I couldn’t see her anymore,then drove back to the pharmacy,and started counting the days. Three months later,I was restocking shelves when the door chimed. Be right with you,I called.
Take your time,a familiar voice said. I can wait. I turned. Hannah,standing in my pharmacy,camera bag over her shoulder,tanned,hair longer,smiling.
You’re early,I said. Stupid thing to say. But my brain had stopped working. Finished ahead of schedule,she said.
Caught an early flight. Surprise. I walked over slowly,like she might disappear if I moved too fast. Hi,I said.
Hi. How was Patagonia? Beautiful,she said. Lonely.
Way too long. Three months,I said. Ninety-two days. I counted.
Me too. Lucas,she said. Yeah. I’m not leaving again,she said.
Not for that long. I talked to my agent. I’m taking local work,regional at most. I’m staying here.
If that’s okay with you,ifthat’s—
Hannah,that’s—
I kissed her right there in the pharmacy,in front of Mrs. Forbes,who was picking up her blood pressure medication. Mrs. Forbes applauded when we pulled apart.
Hannah was crying. Happy tears. I love you,she said. I love you,too,I said.
Welcome home. Home,she repeated,testing the word. Yeah,I said.
This is home now.
