Except that I missed Stephen. I missed Stephen a lot. “You’re not going,” I’d said during our final goodbye in Vermont. We were standing by the Raptor, my head buried in his shirt. “You’re not going. You’re coming to Clinton next weekend, preferably with maple sugar candies.” He’d laughed. “Are you going to tell yourself that for the next nine months?” I knocked my head against his chest. “I’m going to damn well try
