“I can go,” I say. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and I see a flash of the high school version of him. Moody. Hurting. Broken. Misunderstood. A tingle rushes down my spine at the memory, and I’m struck by how easy it is for me to conjure those same feelings I had all those years ago. They’re right there on the surface, and if I give them even an ounce of attention, they’ll grow like dandelions in a meadow. Which is to say fast. And all over. “You can stay,” he says. “This was always your spot first.”
