She stared out with the expectation of being disappointed, as she always was. Except she wasn’t. Because he was standing there. In the pool of castoff light from the streetlamp that stood at the front-most edge of her yard. His hands dug into the pockets of his sagging jeans, hair sliding over his eye. He was real, and solid, and he was smiling up at her. And as she stared at him, breath frozen in her lungs, refusing to blink, he raised a hand and waved, with that goofy little finger wiggle he’d perfected when he’d stopped wanting her to kiss him in front of his school, but still wanted to
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