"You've lost your mind."
Cooper groaned. "You're not listening."
Vincent—who'd been staring blithely at Cooper for the last ten minutes while he passionately recounted his theory that Calla was not, in fact, dead—reached for his phone. "Um, yeah. I'm calling your mother."
Cooper slapped his hand on top of the phone. "You are not calling my mother."
"Oh yes, I am."
"Oh no, you're not."
Vincent's eyes narrowed. "Cooper, so help me God, I will pick you up like a little doll and lock you in your bedroom."
Cooper paused, knowing quite well Vincent was physically capable of doing exactly that. "Vincent," he tried, attempting to sound somewhat reasonable. "Just...hear me out."
"Here we go," Vincent groaned, throwing up his hands. "Dude, I heard you. I heard you loud and clear. You rifled around in Calla's shit and, shocker, you found her work schedule—"
"It wasn't her work schedule," Cooper corrected him, "it was a totally random obituary in the newspaper—"
"—which happened to be related to her fucking job," Vincent continued icily, "so you ran your happy ass across town and harassed some homeless guy about his Goodwill fit—"
"Not a Goodwill fit!" Cooper protested. "My. Halloween. Costume!"
"—and now," Vincent shouted over him, "you're going to spend the rest of your fucking life pining over someone who is definitely fucking dead—"
Cooper swore, turning on his heel. "You're hopeless, you know that?"
"No." Vincent caught up to him in two strides and grabbed Cooper by the shoulder. "You are hopeless, and it's really starting to scare me, Coop, because I don't know what to do at this point," he said, voice breaking.
That small weakness banked the flames of Cooper's fervor. He deflated, hating the distressed light in Vincent's eyes. "I just—" I want you to understand. But of course Vincent didn't understand. Cooper wasn't explaining any of it right. And, if he was being brutally honest, it wasn't like there was much to explain to begin with.
A newspaper clipping and a lipgloss stain on some homeless guy's jacket wasn't much to go on. No wonder Vincent was looking at him like he'd lost his everloving mind.
Cooper dragged his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"You don't have to be sorry. I just want you to try to move on, like you promised you would." Vincent released his grip on Cooper's arm. "Would it be the worst thing in the world to...I don't know, talk to somebody?"
"I'm talking to you."
"I mean a professional," Vincent said slowly, wincing at Cooper's sharp look. "It doesn't have to be a big deal. You've been through a lot of shit, man. It might not be a bad idea to let someone in. Someone who actually knows what they're doing, unlike me."
Cooper wanted to reject his proposal outright, but then he took a second to actually step away from the problem and view it from a distance, and he had to admit—a professional probably could help him. But how was he supposed to talk to a stranger about what he'd done? The terrible, awful choices he'd made? Wouldn't a therapist have some legal obligation to, like...report his crimes to the authorities, at the very least? Crimes like conspiracy, aiding and abetting, murder—the voluntary kind, no less.
Maybe someone should lock me up, he mused absently.
"Coop—" Vincent tried again, clearly worried.
"I..." Cooper's phone buzzed in his back pocket. "Hold on," he muttered, glancing at the number.
GREG AUTO SHOP
He blinked in surprise and answered with a rather hesitant, "Uh, Greg?"
Cooper hadn't heard from the guy in months—not since he'd called for a tow truck to come and drag the Mustang's lifeless carcass to the junkyard. Vincent just folded his arms and waited, skeptical.
Greg harrumphed on the other end of the line. "Long time."
"Yeah." Cooper tried not to make it sound like a question. "So. What's..."
"Car's ready for ya."
Cooper made a face. "Sorry?"
"Come pick her up anytime," Greg grumbled in his usual gruff manner, ending the call without so much as a see ya. Also typical.
Cooper stared at his phone, bewildered.
"Who was that?" Vincent demanded, equally perplexed.
"Um..." Cooper looked at him. "Greg."
"Greg," Vincent repeated. "Greg, like...the auto shop guy, Greg?"
"Yeah. Auto shop guy," Cooper mused. His brain felt all glitchy. "He said something about me coming to pick up a car."
"Like...any car?"
"Honestly, I've got no idea." Cooper pocketed his phone. "I guess I'll be back after...whatever this is."
Vincent watched him slip on his shoes, apartment keys dangling from his fingers. "If he tries to kidnap you," Vincent said seriously as Cooper headed for the door, "call me."
# # #
Cooper was having a hard time believing his own two eyes.
From where he stood at the threshold of the auto shop's garage, the '98 Mustang looked like an exact replica of his beloved car. But that couldn't be his car, he reasoned, staring at the thing in dumb wonder. It couldn't be. His car was sitting somewhere in a scrapyard, rusting away in the cold and the rain.
This car...she was in immaculate condition. Gleaming like she'd just come fresh off the lot.
Greg hiked up his pants as he joined Cooper by the front of the garage, still ogling the Mustang before him. "How she look?"
What's going on? Cooper tried to ask. "Um...she...huh," were the words that came out of his mouth.
"Yup." Greg gave the keys in his hand a jingle before tossing them over to Cooper. "All yours."
This doesn't make sense. That can't be my car. How is that my car?
Any one of those replies would've made sense, given the circumstances. But Cooper wasn't about to argue with the man.
"Baby," he breathed, running an appreciative hand down the Mustang's freshly-waxed body. "Look at you."
Awestruck, he slid into the driver's seat, just like he had a thousand times before, and fit the keys to the ignition. The Mustang's engine revved to life immediately, with none of the groaning and whining he'd come to expect from her over the years.
Good as new. Better than new, because she was his.
"Oh my God," he whispered, running his hands down the steering wheel. Even the interior had a shine to it.
Eyes stinging, Cooper eased the Mustang out of the garage, savoring the feel of the engine humming beneath his feet. He longed to take her out on the open road, just to see what she could do with a full tank of gas and a brand new engine under the hood.
But first, he needed a goddamn minute.
What the hell is going on? he thought weakly, picking at a loose stitch in the steering wheel. The flaw brought him comfort, and soon he was searching for other familiar little imperfections and the memories they held—like that scratch across the console where Vincent's athletic bag had scraped the leather, and the crack in the front cupholder from...well, he couldn't remember where that had come from, only that it had always been there, and seeing it now made him smile.
Not even the duct tape on the rearview mirror could sour his mood. He chuckled, picturing Calla in all her glorious fury, on her way to save his sorry ass at the mansion.
Cooper dropped his forehead against the steering wheel. "I missed you," he whispered to the car, which probably made him an idiot, but it was true and he wasn't about to pretend otherwise.
"Although..." He straightened with a frown. "I gotta ask, baby. How the hell are you here right now?" he muttered, opening the console and inspecting the contents with a curious and somewhat suspicious eye. Maybe the good samaritan who'd paid for the Mustang's restoration had hidden a bomb somewhere as a nice little surprise and he was about to get blown into itty-bitty pieces.
But there were no detonators, no grenades, and definitely no stacks of C4 waiting to explode in his face. All he found digging through the console was the same junk he'd left behind—a pile of quarters and dimes and too many pennies to count, an old gum packet, a wad of rubber bands, a frayed phone charger.
Oka-a-a-ay, he thought, skeptical as he reached across the seat and popped the glove box.
A white-handled knife tumbled onto the floorboard.
With a startled yelp, Cooper dove for the knife and immediately tucked it inside his jacket. Looking quite guilty, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure...what? Greg wasn't about to come barreling over, demanding why the hell Cooper had a knife in his own car?
Ridiculous. Slowly, Cooper placed the knife in his lap, staring down at it with the same raw disbelief he'd felt upon seeing the Mustang in the shop, good as new.
Calla.
A startled laugh bubbled past his lips. He couldn't help it. In the last twenty-four hours, he'd gone from mourning the girl he loved, to desperately clinging to the hope that she might still be alive, spiraling into doubt because that hope was such a frail, baseless thing and his best friend was right, he just couldn't let her go—
And now, this. The car. The knife. He could feel Calla reaching for him, like a tap on the shoulder. Sharp and insistent.
Anyone else—upon faking their own death and trying to find a way to tell their boyfriend they weren't actually dead, as appeared to be the case—might've left behind a heartfelt letter to explain the situation, or if they were going for the ambiguous route, maybe they'd leave a bouquet of flowers in the backseat instead—a bouquet of calla lilies, he thought, quite amused by the idea.
But not Calla. Her idea of a romantic gesture had been leaving him a goddamn knife.
So yeah, he laughed, because it was so very Calla and—fuck, he missed her.
Cooper's smile faded as he remembered the Christmas they'd exchanged gifts beneath the old oak tree. He'd gifted Calla a leatherbound photo album—picture after picture, memory after memory. Unable to let go of what had been, he'd given the pictures to her, trusting her to destroy what he couldn't.
And now she'd given him this—the last piece of an old life she'd never known how to give up.
It was as much control as she'd ever allowed anyone. He curled his fingers protectively around the knife's handle.
This still doesn't mean anything, he tried to convince himself, squashing the hope rising up in his chest. The pessimistic voice in his head belonged to Vincent. There's no proof Calla had the Mustang fixed up. And even if she did, what if she planted the knife before the fire?
Cradling the knife in his lap, Cooper leaned back across the seat and had a proper look through the glovebox, discarding old insurance papers and napkins and—a sealed envelope.
Cooper had been ready to accept that the knife was all Calla had deigned to leave behind. Now, heart hammering, he tore through the unmarked envelope. "You better not leave me hanging," he muttered under his breath, hesitating only a fraction of a second before opening the card inside.
Greenwich Market—London
Come and find me, if you can.
No signature. But Cooper would know that handwriting anywhere.
Alive. Alive.
Calla Parker was alive.
Cooper grinned as he mapped the rendezvous point she'd provided—a borough out in London. Not quite an address, but—Greenwich.
If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?
He'd scoffed at her answer then. But now he understood.
Greenwich. Not Greenwitch.
Cooper laughed, tracing the message Calla had left for him, committing the words to memory. Come and find me. Come and find me, Cooper. I'll be waiting.
He grinned like a fool the entire drive home, flexing the Mustang's new engine every now and then, too happy to care if he was being obnoxious. When he finally pulled into the parking lot back at his apartment, he laid on the horn, ignoring the many doors and windows that opened at the disruption, until a rather irritable-looking Vincent poked his head outside, glaring right along with the rest of their neighbors.
His glare transformed into a grin when he caught sight of the Mustang, and within seconds he was careening down the stairs and across the lot—just in time for Bill Hathrow to start screaming for a bit of peace and fucking quiet, Christ's sake!
Vincent was laughing as he tumbled into the passenger seat. "Dude!" he crowed.
"I know!" They just grinned at each other for several long seconds. Then Cooper leaned back in his seat with a contented sigh. "She's back." Meaning it in more ways than one.
"How?" Vincent breathed, running his hands along the leather appreciatively. "I thought she went to the junkyard?"
"She did." Cooper placed the knife on the console between them and tossed Calla's note in Vincent's lap. "Calla had her fixed up for me."
Vincent stared down at the knife in confusion. "What's—"
"Don't worry about it. Read the card."
Still visibly confused, Vincent opened the card. Cooper had the immense satisfaction of watching his jaw drop in disbelief. "She's alive?" he demanded in a high-pitched voice.
Grinning, Cooper plucked the card from Vincent's hand. "Told you."
"But—" Vincent spluttered. "She—the fire—what?"
Which pretty much summed up the thoughts that had been running through Cooper's head over the last few hours. He stared ahead, admiring the gray winter beyond. "I don't know how. But..."
He shrugged. He didn't care how—okay, maybe that was a lie. He was practically brimming with curiosity and had half a mind to jump on the next plane out to London to demand answers, but that could wait.
At least for another week.
"She's alive," Vincent repeated, awestruck.
Cooper looked sidelong at his best friend. He hadn't taken a moment to consider what Vincent's reaction to all of this would be. And really, he had no way of knowing. In those first chaotic days after the fire, Cooper hadn't even been there enough to gauge how Vincent had handled the fallout.
Had he been secretly relieved for this chapter of their lives to be over? Had he mourned the girl he thought he knew? Cooper dismissed the idea almost immediately. Vincent had already grieved that particular loss.
But looking at him now, Cooper could tell his best friend was...if not overjoyed, at least pleased. Even after everything...maybe he was sorry to see her go, Cooper decided. That, or he's putting it on for my sake.
It didn't matter. Nothing could dampen Cooper's euphoria. Nothing.
"What now?" Vincent asked into the silence that had grown in the wake of their discovery.
Cooper stared down at the card in his hands. He could picture her so perfectly—Calla, smirking as she slipped the envelope into the glovebox and, after only a moment's hesitation, the knife too. He could practically hear the challenge in the words she'd left for him.
Come and find me, if you can.
"I'm going to find her," Cooper pledged. Vincent's head swiveled in his direction, startled. "But first...we're going to a funeral."
# # #
If Cooper never had to go to another funeral again, it would be too soon.
I hate these things, he thought, fidgeting with his tie. A fine mist drizzled down from the gloomy sky, soaking the grass and the headstones branching out in neat rows every which way.
"Coop, man," Gareth said, breaking away from the road that trailed from one end of the Greenwitch Cemetery to the other. The two of them clasped hands. "I'm sorry."
Sorry. The word of the hour.
"Yeah," Cooper said, because what else was there to say? Gareth squeezed his hand before ambling off to join the others gathered under the tent that had been erected around the burial site.
The burial site. Even knowing that Calla was still alive, Cooper shuddered.
He should've been with the others. Mingling. Saying his hellos and nodding somberly with each new sorry that passed their lips, all while pretending not to notice the sympathetic glances being exchanged behind his back.
He just...needed a minute. Or five.
Turning his face skyward, Cooper held perfectly still, mist collecting in his hair, coating his eyelashes. The day was unseasonably warm, but even so, he began to shiver after a few minutes, the not-quite-freezing water soaking through his button-down and sticking to his skin.
"You gonna stand out here avoiding everyone for the rest of the service, or what?"
Cooper dropped his arms with a heavy sigh. "I guess not," he said, turning to find Vincent waiting for him in the middle of the path, arms folded against the fine mist drizzling down from the sky.
"Come on, then," Vincent ordered, jerking his head. "Service starts in ten."
They were the longest ten minutes of Cooper's life. Back under the tent, he traded pleasantries with the guys, Gareth and Ryan and the twins, Mike looking genuinely distressed on Cooper's behalf, though his brother...oh, Blake mumbled his condolences convincingly enough, but he looked more irked than anything—no doubt thinking about how he'd never get that I owe you from Calla.
Lording over their hushed conversations was an enlarged photograph of the (supposedly) deceased, taken at the Christmas party: Calla beaming at the camera in her tacky elf costume, bells and all. Cooper knew it was wrong and that this was not the time to lose his composure, but he couldn't help it; the sight of Calla in that sweater, knowing how much she'd loathed the thing, made it very hard not to laugh, and that earned him more than a few odd looks from the guys.
"She would hate that picture," Vincent said as they disengaged from the others, heading for the other side of the tent, where Cooper's mom and Natalie were waiting for them.
I can't wait to see the look on her face when she finds out. But Cooper couldn't go around talking like that, so instead he snorted and said, "I think hate is too gentle a word."
Before Vincent could agree, Cooper's mom intercepted them. "Hey, baby," she murmured, hesitantly reaching up to swipe his hair behind his ear. He could feel the concern radiating from her. And not just concern, but grief. For him.
For Calla.
Guilt ate away at him. "Hey," he said weakly.
His mom hesitated. "Rosalind, she's..."
His guilt doubled and then tripled as he followed his mom's worried stare to the edge of the tent. Rosalind stood alone by the black coffin that contained her daughter's ashes.
Well...someone's ashes.
"I'll be right back," Cooper choked out, hurrying over before he could lose his nerve.
A bubble of space existed between Rosalind and the other guests, as if the weight of her grief repelled them on some base level. Cooper was the first to broach that space, joining her by the coffin without a word.
He wasn't sure if she noticed him, not at first. That was fine. He didn't mind the silence. All anyone ever wanted to do was talk—about the fire and what came after.
Cooper had just about convinced himself he was being a nuisance and Rosalind probably wanted the space to herself, when suddenly she looked at him, blinking rapidly the way he sometimes did after zoning out so completely he forgot where and when he was. Old tear tracks stained her cheeks. "Oh. Cooper."
Are you okay? he almost asked, but of course she wasn't okay. She'd just lost her daughter. And he couldn't very well say I'm sorry—he was starting to really hate those words and knew she probably felt the same.
"I miss her," he said instead, because it was the only thing he could think of that wasn't a lie, and he didn't want to lie to her—not when she'd already lost everything.
"So do I," she said in a monotonous tone that masked the sorrow of those three words.
Cooper's throat tightened.
Your daughter's still alive. She's okay. I'm going to find her, I promise.
He swallowed the words and took her hand instead. There were no reassurances he could give her, not without completely shattering the careful lie her daughter had crafted. And what an ugly lie it was.
Looking at Rosalind now, Cooper wondered if perhaps he should be angry about that. Angry at Calla, for keeping him in the dark, for leaving him behind. For leaving everyone behind.
And for breaking his heart.
The fantasy he'd concocted about their idyllic reunion across the sea wavered as he parsed through his jumbled emotions, anger and euphoria and anticipation and dread, all in equal measure. He imagined Calla walking down some London street—would her clothes look different, he wondered suddenly, or her hair? Maybe so. But her eyes would be the same, and they would find his through the crowd, the world falling away as she reached for him and him for her.
Maybe he would kiss her. Or maybe he'd turn around and leave her wanting.
Cooper forced himself back to the present. He couldn't say for certain what he'd do once he and Calla were together again. He had to find her first. And he would find her. Of that, he was certain.
"I think I'm going to sell the house," Rosalind mused after a while. Fresh tears spilled down her face.
"You should," Cooper agreed, knowing Calla would have wanted him to.
She nodded. Cooper, realizing the moment had passed, slowly slipped his hand from hers. "I'll see you around," he said, the lie hollow in his mouth.
That got her attention. Rosalind's head snapped around and she pinned him with a look of such intensity, he startled. "You shouldn't come back here." Blinking, she turned back to the coffin. "Get out of this town and don't ever look back, Cooper. I'd tell her the same thing, if she were here."
This town that had caused them so much pain. This town of nightmares and ghosts. The town they couldn't shake, no matter how far they ran.
Or maybe they just hadn't run far enough.
Cooper rejoined his mom at the front of the tent, Vincent standing arm-in-arm with Natalie, who looked somber in her black trousers and blouse. She gave him a watery smile. I'm sorry, she mouthed. And even though Cooper hated the words, he smiled back.
The rain had just started to pick up when the pastor from the little church across the highschool arrived to say a few words. Cooper braced himself for what was sure to be a long, ambling speech, sandwiched between his mom and Vincent, Natalie on his other arm.
To distract himself—he couldn't bear hearing about the joyous life Calla had lived; between the murder and the blackmail and the constant scheming, very little had actually been joyous—Cooper spent the better part of the hour people-watching, knowing Calla would want a full and detailed account.
The guys had turned out for his sake, he knew—Ryan and Gareth and the twins, looking appropriately somber, under the circumstances. Rosalind had taken her place at the front, stiff-backed, her tears gone dry. Nearby was Sheriff Marks, who gave Cooper a solemn nod, and Deputy Pendowski. The sheriff's niece, Ali Marks-Lowry, and her husband Steven had shown, and so had Hayley Singleton—who was busy making eyes at Gareth for most of the service.
She's going on Calla's shit list after this for sure, Cooper thought, darkly amused.
Principal Fields. That one lady from the front desk whose name Cooper could never remember. Ms. Esperanza—she gave Cooper and Vincent the evil eye several times, which vexed him.
Astrid's father, Cooper's beloved biology teacher, was nowhere to be seen.
There were a few surprise guests. Like Tom Sahein, for instance, sitting at the edge of the crowd, knuckles white against the arms of his wheelchair, eyes limned in silver as he fought back...were those tears? Cooper stared at him, bewildered. What the hell did Tom have to mourn, exactly?
He almost turned to Vincent to get his opinion on the matter, but then thought better of it.
Olivia and Kevin ducked beneath the tent to join the crowd of mourners five or so minutes into the pastor's eulogy. Olivia gave Cooper a little wave, but Kevin—he met Cooper's eye for a brief second and quickly looked away, embarrassed. Cooper supposed there were some breaches of etiquette—like assaulting your friend to make up for your own poor decisions in life—that couldn't be easily mended.
The others in attendance were strangers to him. Acquaintances from Ithaca, maybe, who Cooper had never met and who'd never really known Calla at all, not that he had any business saying so aloud.
Calla would get such a kick out of this, he thought as he watched the crowd—which cleared out fairly quickly after Rosalind said her piece, the service officially concluded. Cooper disentangled himself from his mom to say his goodbyes, knowing very well they could be permanent.
"We're going for a drink, if you wanna join," Ryan offered, looking at Cooper in that way that said, I have no idea how to act around you, but maybe beer will help.
"Sure. I'll let you know," Cooper said, and he meant it. One last beer with the guys, before—
Ah. That hurt to think about.
I can always come back, Cooper reasoned, watching Ryan and Mike and Blake clear out, Gareth trailing somewhat behind them, an enthusiastic Hayley in tow. It's not like this is goodbye forever.
Then again—maybe it was. And maybe that was for the best.
Get out of this town and don't ever look back, Cooper. I'd tell her the same thing, if she were here.
As everyone else abandoned the cemetery and the grief that lingered there, Cooper was surprised to find Tom Sahein still sitting there under the tent, gazing at Calla's picture with...was that longing? Or just doubt?
Something about it bugged Cooper. He shoved the feeling down and joined Tom with a quiet, "Hey."
In hindsight, Cooper wasn't sure what he'd been expecting from Tom. Maybe a polite hello or even a shove off, you asshat. It wasn't like they were on good terms. But the bad blood between them...
They could move on. They had to move on.
Or not. Tom glanced up at Cooper—well, glared was probably the better word. "Steph sends her regards," he said coldly, maneuvering his wheelchair around Cooper before he could muster a reply.
Cooper stared after him, aghast.
"Tom looked like he wanted to deck you just then," Vincent said, sounding rather amused as he rejoined Cooper by Calla's portrait.
"Um...I think you're right?" Cooper said, and it came out like a question.
He thought about telling Vincent what Tom had said, but honestly—he wasn't so sure what to make of it himself. A problem for another day, he reasoned. For now, that would have to be enough.
For now.
"So." Vincent rocked back on his heels. Nat had already gone to the parking lot with Cooper's mom. "What now?"
Cooper hadn't known how to answer that question before the funeral. Now, he felt as though he teetered on the edge of a great precipice, the future unfurling rapidly before him. Beckoning.
Come and find me.
When Cooper let out his next breath, the weight of uncertainty slipped from his shoulders. "I'm dropping out."
By the way Vincent's eyes bulged, it hadn't been the answer he'd been anticipating. "You can't just—"
"People drop out of college all the time," Cooper explained calmly. "It's not the end of the world. And no, before you go all Amelia Mode on my ass, I'm not dropping out permanently."
Vincent's expression relaxed to one of deep skepticism. "You're giving up on the semester?"
"I kind of have to. My grades are totally shot. I've already missed at least a week's worth of class, and Mom's talking about keeping me home for at least another few days..." He shrugged. "And honestly, that kinda sounds nice. To just...take a break."
Vincent considered the proposal—even though it was less a proposal and more a this is already happening, so you'd better get on board memo. "Okay," he said, nodding to himself. "It's just a semester. You can always repeat in the fall—"
"I'm not coming back, Vince."
"What do you mean, you're not coming back?" he demanded. "You just said this isn't permanent."
Cooper looked at Calla's picture and allowed himself a small, secretive smile. "Figured I might try the whole study abroad thing. See how I like it."
"But—"
"If you need to know, I'll tell you," Cooper promised with a grin.
A visibly dejected Vincent watched as Cooper fished the keys to the Mustang out of his pocket—and flinched when he tossed them at his chest.
"What—" Despite his obvious surprise, Vincent caught the keys with instinctive ease.
"If I'm gonna leave her with you," Cooper said, heading for the parking lot, "I need to know you can drive her right."
Vincent stared after him quizzically. "Leave her...with..." He caught up to Cooper in a few easy strides. "You can't—"
"I can." The rain started coming down in earnest then. "Come on!"
Together, they ran for the Mustang and tumbled inside, breathless and damp.
Vincent was quiet for a long time. "You could stay," he said while Cooper shook the water out of his hair. "It would just be a couple more semesters. Me and Nat...we'd miss you."
Cooper considered the offer.
If he chose to stay, he knew, given time, he'd move on with his life. The dream he had now of crossing the sea and finding the girl who'd slipped through his fingers—it would die with time. A slow, painful death, maybe. But it would come all the same.
He could see it now. Vincent, dragging his sorry ass to every football game, every after-party, every pregame. And Cooper, despite his misery—he would go along with it, for Vincent's sake, and eventually he'd tire of sitting in the corner with his red solo cup, watching from the sidelines, so he'd down a few drinks and get smashed and pluck up the courage to take a girl home, just to see if a bit of meaningless sex could bring him back to life.
When the meaningless sex didn't work, he'd feel even worse after the fact. But the next time—and there would be a next time—wouldn't be quite so bad, so the cycle would continue. Grieve and bounce back and grieve.
Purgatory.
But nothing, not even misery, lasts forever. The day would come when he would think of Calla only in passing, and finally he would understand what she'd meant all those years ago.
You could be happy without me.
The problem was—and this was a very big problem—he didn't want to be happy without her. Even knowing it was only a matter of time before she got herself into more trouble...
He supposed he understood now what it was to love someone.
Love was a choice. And Cooper had made his.
He couldn't stay. Not here, watching Vincent and Nat play out their senior year, knowing all the while that Calla was still out there. Somewhere.
"No," Cooper said at last, absently running a finger along the edge of his bracelet, as had become his habit. "I can't stay. You know I appreciate you, and you'd better believe I'll visit, but..." He looked over at Vincent. "I need to do this. I need to...get away." He smiled. "Somewhere far, far away."
Vincent sighed, as if he'd known all along that would be Cooper's answer. "Where will you go?"
Greenwich Market, was the immediate answer that sprang to mind. But then he thought of afternoons spent under the old oak tree. Road trips into the city, the smell of summer rain on the pavement. Memories burning to ash in the cemetery. Calla, standing there in her driveway, arms folded. Impatient. Always so impatient. The taste of tequila on her lips. Her feet in his lap. Red hair curled around his finger.
Those dark, dark eyes.
Come and find me, if you can.
"Home," Cooper answered simply. "I'm going home."
Someday, he would find her again.
Someday.
THE END