Coming out of the booth, I step forward like it’s the most natural thing to do, and then we collide into a tight hug. I fist the back of his leather jacket, the familiarity overwhelming. He still smells like Tom—like sage and apricot, the fragrance of some expensive cologne Beckett got him into when he was fourteen. Eliot joins us, his long arms wrapping around me and Tom. He encases our three-person hug, as though protecting what we are. Tears prick the edges of my eyes. It feels like no time has passed—but I know it’s all an illusion. How much has really changed?
