Page 108 of Leaving the Station

But just as we start making out again, the train slows to a stop.

“Folks,” the conductor says. “Once again, on behalf of the whole crew, I want to thank you for riding with us. It’s been a pleasure and an honor.”

“MORE than an honor,” Edward says, taking over the loudspeaker for the last time. “Thank you to my friends, new and old, for everything you’ve given me.”

I smile at that and silently thank him one more time too.

I throw my stuff into my suitcase and then, when everything is packed, Oakley and I stare around the room.

“I’ll miss her,” I say, gesturing to the bunk beds.

“I won’t,” Oakley says. “I want to make out with you on a California King.”

My face reddens at that, but I tell her, “I want that too.”

As we step off the train, my legs are stiff and my body aches and I need a shower, but I feel better than I have in a long time.

The air is humid on the platform, and it smells like evergreens and mist and home.

“Wait,” Oakley says, grabbing me in the middle of the platform and kissing me.

“You’ll text me?” I ask as we pull apart. “Keep me updated about your life?”

“About everything,” she promises. “I can even update you on my poops if that’s what you want.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Too bad,” she says as she wheels her suitcase down the platform, toward the station house. “It’s already happening.”

“Fine,” I tell her as I catch up.

Right before we walk through the doors of the station, she turns to me once more. “We can talk as much or as little as you want,” she says seriously. “But I want to text you good morning. And I want to hear your voice at night. And when I come back to Seattle—when,not if—I’m going to makesureyour dreams are sweet.”

“Okay,” I tell her, because that’s all I can say over the beating of my heart.

Finally, we step through the doors. She looks back at me one more time before she runs over to her mom, who, like I expected, is blond and pretty and wraps her in a hug.

At the other end of the station is my dad, who waves as he walks over to me.

“Have a good trip, bubala?” he asks.

“Not bad,” I tell him.

We have a lot to discuss, but for now, I want to live in the glow of what Oakley said to me. I want to feel the ghost of her lips against my mouth for as long as possible.

Right before we’re about to leave, I turn around to find Oakley looking back at me.

She waves, and I wave back.

“Who’s that?” my dad asks.

I think about lying, about bending the truth. But I’m about to come clean about everything, so I might as well start with this.

“Someone important,” I say. “We’ll talk about her later.”

And with that, we leave the station and head toward our car in the light rain of a Seattle morning.

When I look down at my phone, I have a text: