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CASSETTE 5: SIDE A

The glass door to Rosie’s closes behind me, and I hear three locks immediately slide into place.

So now where? Home? Back to Monet’s? Or maybe I’ll go to the library after all. I can sit outside on the concrete steps. Listen to the remainder of the tapes in the dark.

“Clay!”

It’s Tony’s voice.

Bright headlights flash three times. The driver’s-side window is down and Tony’s outstretched hand waves me over. I tug the zipper on my jacket up and walk over to his window. But I don’t lean in. I don’t feel like talking. Not now.

Tony and I have known each other for years, working on projects and joking around after class. And all that time, we’ve never had a deep conversation.

Now, I’m afraid, he wants to have one. He’s been sitting here this whole time. Just sitting in his car. Waiting. What else could be on his mind?

He won’t look at me. Instead, he reaches out to adjust the side mirror with his thumb. Then he closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward. “Get in, Clay.” “Is everything all right?”

After a short pause, slowly, he nods.

I walk around the front of his car, open the passenger door, and sit, keeping one foot out on the blacktop. I place my backpack, with Hannah’s shoebox inside it, on my lap.

“Shut the door,” he says.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s okay, Clay. Just shut the door.” He winds the handle on his door and his window slides up. “It’s cold outside.” His gaze slips from the dashboard to the stereo to his steering wheel. But he won’t face me.

The moment I pull the door shut, like the trigger on a starting pistol, he begins.

“You’re the ninth person I’ve had to follow, Clay.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The second set of tapes,” he says. “Hannah wasn’t bluffing. I’ve got them.”

“Oh, God.” I cover my face with both hands. Behind my eyebrow, the pounding is back again. With the base of my palm, I press on it. Hard.

“It’s okay,” he says.

I can’t look at him. What does he know? About me? What has he heard? “What’s okay?”

“What were you listening to in there?”

“What?”

“Which tape?”

I can try and deny it, pretend I have no clue what he’s talking about. Or I can get out of his car and leave. But either way, he knows.

“It’s okay, Clay. Honest. Which tape?”

With my eyes still shut, I press my knuckles against my forehead. “Ryan’s,” I say. “The poem.” Then I look at him.

He leans his head back, eyes closed.

“What?” I ask.

No answer.

“Why’d she give them to you?”

He touches the key-chain dangling in the ignition. “Can I drive while you listen to the next tape?” “Tell me why she gave them to you.”

“I’ll tell you,” he says, “if you’ll just listen to the next tape right now.”

“Why?”

“Clay, I’m not joking. Listen to the tape.”

“Then answer my question.”

“Because it’s about you, Clay.” He lets go of his keys. “The next tape is about you.”

Nothing.

My heart doesn’t jump. My eyes don’t flinch. I don’t breathe.

And then.

I snap my arm back, my elbow into the seat. Then I smash it into the door and I want to pound my head sideways into the window. But I pound it back against the headrest instead.

Tony lays a hand on my shoulder. “Listen to it,” he says. “And don’t leave this car.”

He turns the ignition.

With tears falling, I roll my head to face him. But he’s staring straight ahead.

I open the door of the Walkman and pull out the tape. The fifth tape. A dark blue number nine in the corner. My tape. I am number nine.

I drop the tape back into the Walkman and, holding the player in both hands, close it like a book.

Tony puts the car in gear and drives through the empty parking lot, heading for the street.

Without looking, I run my thumb across the top of the Walkman, feeling for the button that brings me into the story.

Romeo, oh Romeo. Wherefore art thou, Romeo?

My story. My tape. This is how it begins.

Good question, Juliet. And I wish I knew the answer.

Tony shouts over the engine. “Clay, it’s okay!”

To be totally honest, there was never a point where I said to myself, Clay Jensen he’s the one.

Just hearing my name, the pain in my head doubles. I feel an agonizing twist in my heart.

I’m not even sure how much of the real Clay Jensen I got to know over the years. Most of what I knew was secondhand information. And that’s why I wanted to know him better. Because everything I heard—and I mean everything! was good.

It was one of those things where, once I noticed it, I couldn’t stop noticing it.

Kristen Rennert, for example. She always wears black. Black pants. Or black shoes. Black shirt. If it’s a black jacket, and that’s the only black she’s wearing, she won’t take it off all day. The next time you see her, you’ll notice it. And then you won’t be able to stop noticing it.

Steve Oliver’s the same way. Whenever he raises his hand to say something, or ask a question, he always begins with the words “all right.” “Mr. Oliver?”

“All right, if Thomas Jefferson was a slave owner . . . ”

“Mr. Oliver?”

“All right, I got 76.1225.”

“Mr. Oliver?”

“All right, can I have a hall pass?”

Seriously. Every time. And now you’ll notice it, too . . . every time.

Yes, I’ve noticed it, Hannah. But let’s get on with it. Please.

Overhearing gossip about Clay became a similar distraction. And like I said, I didn’t know him very well, but my ears perked up whenever I heard his name. I guess I wanted to hear something—anything—juicy. Not because I wanted to spread gossip. I just couldn’t believe someone could be that good.

I glance at Tony and roll my eyes. But he’s driving, looking straight ahead.

If he actually was that good wonderful. Great! But it became a personal game of mine. How long could I go on hearing nothing but good things about Clay Jensen?

Normally, when a person has a stellar image, another person’s waiting in the wings to tear them apart. They’re waiting for that one fatal flaw to expose itself.

But not with Clay.

Again, I look over at Tony. This time, he’s smirking.

I hope this tape doesn’t make you run out and dig for that deep, dark, and dirty secret of his . . . which I’m sure is there. At least one or two of them, right?

I’ve got a few.

But wait, isn’t that what you’re doing, Hannah? You’re setting him up as Mr. Perfect only to tear him down. You, Hannah Baker, were the one waiting in the wings. Waiting for a flaw. And you found it. And now you can’t wait to tell everyone what it is and ruin his image.

To which I say no.

My chest relaxes, freeing a breath of air I didn’t even know I was holding.

And I hope you’re not disappointed. I hope you aren’t just listening—salivating—for gossip. I hope these tapes mean more to you than that.

Clay, honey, your name does not belong on this list.

I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, concentrating on the cold glass. Maybe if I listen to the words but concentrate on the cold, maybe I can hold it together.

You don’t belong in the same way as the others. It’s like that song: One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn’t belong.

And that’s you, Clay. But you need to be here if I’m going to tell my story. To tell it more completely.

“Why do I have to hear this?” I ask. “Why didn’t she just skip me if I don’t belong?”

Tony keeps driving. If he looks anywhere other than straight ahead, it’s only briefly into the rearview mirror.

“I would’ve been happier never hearing this,” I say.

Tony shakes his head. “No. It would drive you crazy not knowing what happened to her.”

I stare through the windshield at the white lines glowing in the headlights. And I realize he’s right.

“Besides,” he says, “I think she wanted you to know.”

Maybe, I think. But why? “Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer.

Yes, there are some major gaps in my story. Some parts I just couldn’t figure out how to tell. Or couldn’t bring myself to say out loud. Events I haven’t come to grips with . . . that I’ll never come to grips with. And if I never have to say them out loud, then I never have to think them all the way through.

But does that diminish any of your stories? Are your stories any less meaningful because I’m not telling you everything?

No.

Actually, it magnifies them.

You don’t know what went on in the rest of my life. At home. Even at school. You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately, you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life.

Everything . . . affects everything.

The next few stories are centered around one night.

The party.

They’re centered around our night, Clay. And you know what I mean by our night because, through all the years we’ve spent going to the same school or working together at the movie theater, there’s only one night when we connected.

When we really connected.

That night drags many of you into the story as well . . . One of you for the second time. A random night that none of you can take back.

I hated that night. Even before these tapes, I hated it. That night, I ran to tell an old woman that her husband was fine. Everything was going to be fine. But I was lying. Because while I was running to comfort his wife, the other driver was dying.

And the old man, by the time he got home to his wife, he knew it.

Hopefully, no one will hear these tapes except for those of you on this list, leaving any changes they bring to your lives completely up to you.

Of course, if the tapes do get out, you’ll have to deal with consequences completely out of your control. So I sincerely hope you’re passing them on.

I glance at Tony. Would he really do that? Could he? Would he give the tapes to someone not on the list?

Who?

For some of you, those consequences may be minimal. Maybe shame. Or embarrassment. But for others, it’s hard to say. A lost job? Jail time?

Let’s keep this between us, shall we?

So Clay, I wasn’t even supposed to be at that party. I was invited, but I wasn’t supposed to be there. My grades were slipping pretty fast. My parents asked for progress reports every week from my teachers. And when none of them came back with improvements, I was grounded.

For me, grounded meant that I had one hour to get home from school. One hour being my only free time until I brought those grades up.

We’re at a stoplight. And still, Tony keeps his eyes straight ahead. Does he want to avoid seeing me cry? Because he doesn’t have to worry, I’m not. Not right now.

During one of my Clay Jensen gossip moments, I found out that you were going to be at the party.

What? Clay Jensen at a party? Unheard of.

I study on the weekends. In most of my classes, we’re tested every Monday. It’s not my fault.

Not only was that my first thought, that’s what the people around me were talking about, too. No one could figure out why they never saw you at parties. Of course, they had all sorts of theories. But guess what? That’s right. None of them were bad.

Give me a break.

As you know, since Tyler’s not tall enough to peep through a second-story window, sneaking out of my bedroom wasn’t hard to do. And that night, I just had to do it. But don’t jump to conclusions. I’ve snuck out of my house, before that night, only twice.

Okay, three times. Maybe four. Tops.

For those of you who don’t know which party I’m talking about, there’s a red star on your map. A big, fat, red star completely filled in. C-6. Five-twelve Cottonwood.

Is that where we’re going?

Aaaah . . . so now you know. Now some of you know exactly where you fit in. But you’ll have to wait until your name pops up to hear what I’m going to tell. To hear how much I tell.

That night, I decided that walking to the party would be nice. Relaxing. We had a lot of rain that week, and I remember the clouds were still hanging low and thick. The air was warm for that time of night, too. My absolute favorite type of weather.

Mine, too.

Pure magic.

It’s funny. Walking by the houses on my way to the party, it felt like life held so many possibilities. Limitless possibilities. And for the first time in a long time, I felt hope.

So did I. I forced myself out of the house and to that party. I was ready for something new to happen. Something exciting.

Hope? Well, I guess I misread things a bit.

And now? Knowing what happened between Hannah and me, would I still have gone? Even if nothing changed?

It was simply the calm before the storm.

I would. Yes. Even if the outcome stayed the same.

I wore a black skirt with a matching hooded pullover. And on my way there, I took a three-block detour to my old house—the one I lived in when we first moved to town. The first red star from the first side of the first tape. The porch light was on and, in the garage, a car’s engine was running.

But the garage door was shut.

Am I the only one who knows this? Does anyone else know that’s where he lived? The man from the accident. The man whose car killed a student from our school.

I stopped walking and, for what seemed like several minutes, just watched from the sidewalk. Mesmerized. Another family in my house. I had no idea who they were or what they were like—what their lives were like.

The garage door began to lift and, in the glow of the red taillights, the silhouette of a man pushed the heavy door all the way up. He got in the car, backed it down the driveway, and drove off.

Why he didn’t stop, why he didn’t ask why I was standing there staring at his house, I don’t know. Maybe he thought I was waiting for him to back out of the driveway before continuing on my merry way.

But whatever the reason, it felt surreal. Two people—me and him—one house. Yet he drove away with no idea of his link to me, the girl on the sidewalk. And for some reason, at that moment, the air felt heavy. Filled with loneliness. And that loneliness stayed with me through the rest of the night.

Even the best moments of the night were affected by that one incident—by that nonincident—in front of my old house. His lack of interest in me was a reminder. Even though I had a history in that house, it didn’t matter. You can’t go back to how things were. How you thought they were.

All you really have . . . is now.

Those of us on the tapes, we can’t go back, either. We can never not find a package on our doorstep. Or in our mailbox. From that moment on, we’re different.

Which explains my overreaction, Clay. And that’s why you’ll get these tapes. To explain. To say I’m sorry.

Does she remember? Does she remember that I apologized to her that night? Is that why she’s apologizing to me?

The party was well underway by the time I got there. Most people, unlike me, didn’t have to wait for their parents to fall asleep.

The usual crowd hung out by the front door of the party, drunk out of their minds, greeting everyone with a raised cup of beer. I would think Hannah would be a hard name to slur, but those guys did it pretty well. Half of them kept repeating my name, trying to get it right, while the other half laughed.

But they were harmless. Fun drunks make a nice addition to any party. Not looking to fight. Not looking to score. Just looking to get drunk and laugh.

I remember those guys. Like the mascots of the party. “Clay! Whatchoo doon here? Bah-ha-ha-ha!”

The music was loud and no one was dancing. It could have been any party . . . except for one thing.

Clay Jensen.

I’m sure you heard a lot of sarcastic remarks when you first arrived, but by the time I got there, to everyone else you were just a part of the party. But unlike everyone else, you were the whole reason I came.

With everything going on in my life—going on in my head—I wanted to talk with you. Really talk. Just once. A chance we never seemed to get at school. Or at work. A chance to ask, Who are you?

We didn’t get that chance because I was afraid. Afraid I had no chance with you.

That’s what I thought. And I was fine with that. Because what if I got to know you and you turned out to be just like they said? What if you weren’t the person I hoped you were?

That, more than anything, would have hurt the most.

And as I stood in the kitchen, in line to fill my cup for the first time, you walked up behind me.

“Hannah Baker,” you said, and I turned toward you. “Hannah . . . hey.”

When she first arrived, when she walked through the front door, she caught me off guard. And like a freak, I turned around, ran through the kitchen, and straight out the back.

It was too soon, I told myself. I went to the party telling myself that if Hannah Baker showed up, I was going to talk to her. It was time. I didn’t care who was there, I was going to keep my eyes focused on her and we were going to talk.

But then she walked in and I freaked out.

I couldn’t believe it. Out of the blue, there you were.

No, not out of the blue. First I paced around the backyard, cursing myself for being such a scared little boy. Then I let myself out through the gate, fully intent on walking home.

But on the sidewalk, I beat myself up some more. Then I walked back to the front door. The drunk people greeted me again, and I went straight for you.

It was anything but out of the blue.

“I don’t know why,” you said, “but I think we need to talk.”

It took all the guts in the world to keep that conversation going. Guts and two plastic cups of beer.

And I agreed, with probably the dumbest smile plastered on my face.

No. The most beautiful.

And then I noticed the doorframe behind you, leading into the kitchen. It had a bunch of pen and pencil marks scratched on it, keeping track of how fast the children in the house were growing. And I remembered watching my mom erase those marks on our old kitchen door, getting ready to sell the house to move here.

I saw that. I saw something in your eyes when you looked over my shoulder.

Anyway, you looked at my empty cup, poured half of your drink into mine, and asked if now would be a good time to talk.

Please don’t read into that, people. Yes, it sounds all smooth and get-the-girl-drunk, but it wasn’t. It didn’t seem that way to me.

It wasn’t. No one’s going to buy that, but it’s true.

Because if that was the case, he would have encouraged me to fill my cup all the way.

So we walked into the living room, where one side of the couch was occupied.

By Jessica Davis and Justin Foley.

But there was plenty of room on the other end, so we sat down. And what was the first thing we did? We set down our cups and started talking. Just . . . like . . . that.

She had to know it was them. Jessica and Justin. But she didn’t say their names. The first boy she kissed kissing the girl who slapped her at Monet’s. It was like she couldn’t escape her past.

Everything I could have hoped for was happening. The questions were personal, as if catching up for the time we let pass. Yet the questions never felt intrusive.

Her voice, if physically possible, comes through the headphones feeling warm. I place cupped hands over my ears to keep her words from escaping.

And they weren’t intrusive. Because I wanted you to know me.

It was wonderful. I couldn’t believe Hannah and I were finally talking. Really talking. And I did not want it to stop.

I loved talking with you, Hannah.

It seemed like you could know me. Like you could understand anything I told you. And the more we spoke, I knew why. The same things excited us. The same things concerned us.

You could have told me anything, Hannah. That night, nothing was off limits. I would’ve stayed till you opened up and let everything out, but you didn’t.

I wanted to tell you everything. And that hurt because some things were too scary. Some things even I didn’t understand. How could I tell someone—someone I was really talking to for the first time—everything I was thinking?

I couldn’t. It was too soon.

But it wasn’t.

Or maybe it was too late.

But you’re telling me now. Why did you wait till now?

Her words, they’re not warm anymore. She might want me to hear them that way, but they’re burning me up instead. In my mind. In my heart.

Clay, you kept saying that you knew things would flow easily between us. You felt that way for a long time, you said. You knew we’d get along. That we would connect.

But how? You never explained that. How could you know? Because I knew what people said about me. I heard all the rumors and lies that will always be a part of me.

I knew they weren’t true, Hannah. I mean, I hoped they weren’t true. But I was too afraid to find out.

I was breaking. If only I’d talked to you sooner. We could have been . . . we could’ve . . . I don’t know. But things had gone too far by then. My mind was set. Not on ending my life. Not yet. It was set on floating through school. On never being close to anyone. That was my plan. I’d graduate, then I’d leave.

But then, I went to a party. I went to a party to meet you.

Why did I do that? To make myself suffer? Because that’s what I was doing—hating myself for waiting so long. Hating myself because it wasn’t fair to you.

The only thing that’s not fair are these tapes, Hannah, because I was there for you. We were talking. You could have said anything. I would have listened to absolutely anything.

The couple sitting beside us on the couch, the girl was drunk and laughing and bumping into me every so often. Which was funny at first, but it got old real fast.

Why isn’t Hannah saying her name?

I started to think maybe she wasn’t so drunk after all. Maybe it was all a show for the guy she was talking with . . . when they were actually talking. Maybe she wanted the couch all to herself and her guy.

So Clay and I left.

We walked around the party, shouting over the music wherever we went. Eventually—successfully—I spun the conversation around. No more big and heavy topics. We needed to laugh. But everywhere we went it was too noisy to hear each other.

So we wound up in the doorway to an empty room.

I remember everything that happened next. I remember it perfectly. But how does she remember it?

While we were standing there, our backs against the doorframe, drinks in hand, we couldn’t stop laughing.

And yet the loneliness I entered the party with came rushing back.

But I wasn’t alone. I knew that. For the first time in a long time, I was connecting—connected—with another person from school. How in the world was I alone?

You weren’t. Hannah, I was there.

Because I wanted to be. That’s all I can say. It’s all that makes sense to me. How many times had I let myself connect with someone only to have it thrown back in my face?

Everything seemed good, but I knew it had the potential to be awful. Much, much more painful than the others.

There was no way that was going to happen.

So there you were, letting me connect with you. And when I couldn’t do that anymore, when I pulled the conversation to lighter topics, you made me laugh. And you were hilarious, Clay. You were exactly what I needed.

So I kissed you.

No, I kissed you, Hannah.

A long and beautiful kiss.

And what did you say when we came up for air? With the cutest, littlest, boyish smirk, you asked, “What was that for?” Right. You kissed me.

To which I said, “You’re such an idiot.” And we kissed some more.

An idiot. Yes, I remember that, too.

Eventually we shut the door and moved deeper into the room. We were on one side of the door. And the rest of the party, with its loud but muffled music, was on the other.

Amazing. We were together. That’s what I kept thinking the whole time. Amazing. I had to concentrate so hard to keep that word from spilling out of my mouth.

Some of you may be wondering, How come we never heard about this? We always found out who Hannah made out with.

Because I never told.

Wrong. You only thought you found out. Haven’t you been listening? Or did you only pay attention to the tape with your name on it? Because I can count on one hand—yes, one hand—how many people I’ve made out with. But you, you probably thought I’d need both hands and both feet just to get started, right?

What’s that? You don’t believe me? You’re shocked? Guess what . . . I don’t care. The last time I cared what anyone thought about me was that night. And that was the last night.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and lean forward. I clasp my hand over my mouth and squeeze to keep from screaming.

But I do scream, the sound dampened in the palm of my hand.

And Tony keeps driving.

Now get comfortable, because I’m about to tell you what happened in that room between Clay and me. Are you ready?

We kissed.

That’s it. We kissed.

I look down at my lap, at the Walkman. It’s too dark to see the spindles behind the plastic window, pulling the tape from one side to the other, but I need to focus on something, so I try. And concentrating on the spot where the two spindles should be is the closest I get to looking into Hannah’s eyes as she tells my story.

It was wonderful, both of us lying on the bed. One of his hands resting on my hip. His other arm cradling my head like a pillow. Both of my arms hugging him, trying to pull him closer. And speaking for myself, I wanted more.

That’s when I said it. That’s when I whispered to her, “I’m so sorry.” Because inside, I felt so happy and sad at the same time. Sad that it took me so long to get there. But happy that we got there together.

The kisses felt like first kisses. Kisses that said I could start over if I wanted to. With him.

But start over from what?

And that’s when I thought of you, Justin. For the first time in a long time, I thought of our first kiss. My real first kiss. I remembered the anticipation leading up to it. I remembered your lips pressed against mine.

And then I remembered how you ruined it.

“Stop,” I told Clay. And my hands stopped pulling him in.

You pushed your hands against my chest.

Could you feel what I was going through, Clay? Did you sense it? You must have.

No. You hid it. You never told me what it was, Hannah.

I shut my eyes so tight it was painful. Trying to push away all that I was seeing in my head. And what I saw was everyone on this list . . . and more. Everyone up to that night. Everyone who caused me to be so intrigued by Clay’s reputation—how his reputation was so different from mine.

No, we were the same.

And I couldn’t help that. What everyone thought of me was out of my control.

Clay, your reputation was deserved. But mine . . . mine was not. And there I was, with you. Adding to my reputation.

But it wasn’t like that. Who was I going to tell, Hannah?

“Stop,” I repeated. This time I moved my hands under your chest and pushed you away. I turned to the side, burying my face in the pillow.

You started to talk, but I made you stop. I asked you to leave. You started to talk again and I screamed. I screamed into the pillow.

And then you stopped talking. You heard me.

The bed lifted on your side as you got up to leave the room. But it took you forever to leave, to realize that I was serious.

I was hoping you’d tell me to stop again. To stop leaving.

Even though my eyes remained shut, buried in the pillow, the light changed when you finally opened the door. It grew brighter. Then it faded again . . . and you were gone.

Why did I listen? Why did I leave her there? She needed me and I knew that.

But I was scared. Once again, I let myself get scared.

And then I slid off the bed and down to the floor. I just sat there beside the bed, hugging my knees . . . and crying.

That, Clay, is where your story ends.

But it shouldn’t have. I was there for you, Hannah. You could have reached out but you didn’t. You chose this. You had a choice and you pushed me away. I would have helped you. I wanted to help you.

You left the room and we never spoke again.

Your mind was set. No matter what you say, it was set.

In the hallways at school, you tried catching my eye, but I always looked away. Because that night, when I got home, I tore a page from my notebook and wrote down one name after another after another. The names in my head when I stopped kissing you.

There were so many names, Clay. Three dozen, at least.

And then . . . I made the connections.

I circled your name first, Justin. And I drew a line from you to Alex. I circled Alex and drew a line to Jessica, bypassing names that didn’t connect—that just floated there—incidents all by themselves.

My anger and frustration with all of you turned to tears and then back to anger and hate every time I found a new connection.

And then I reached Clay, the reason I went to the party. I circled his name and drew a line . . . back. Back to a previous name.

It was Justin.

In fact, Clay, soon after you left and shut the door . . . that person reopened it.

On Justin’s tape, the first tape, she said his name would reappear. And he was at that party. On the couch with Jessica.

But that person’s already received the tapes. So Clay, just skip him when you pass them on. In a roundabout way, he caused a new name to be added to this list. And that’s who should receive the tapes from you.

And yes, Clay, I’m sorry, too.

My eyes sting. Not from the salt in my tears, but because I haven’t closed them since learning Hannah cried when I left the room.

Every muscle in my neck burns to turn away. To look out the window, away from the Walkman, and let my eyes stare into nothing. But I can’t bring myself to move, to break the effect of her words.

Tony slows the car and pulls over to a curb. “You okay?”

It’s a residential street, but it’s not the street of the party.

I shake my head no.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asks.

I lean back, resting my head against the seat, and close my eyes. “I miss her.”

“I miss her, too,” he says. And when I open my eyes, his head is down. Is he crying? Or maybe trying not to cry.

“The thing is,” I say, “I never really missed her till now.”

He sits back in his seat and looks over at me.

“I didn’t know what to make of that night. Everything that happened. I’d liked her for so long from far away, but I never had a chance to tell her.” I look down at the Walkman. “We only had one night, and by the end of that night, it seemed like I knew her even less than before. But now I know. I know where her mind was that night. Now I know what she was going through.” My voice breaks, and in that break comes a flood of tears.

Tony doesn’t respond. He looks out into the empty street, allowing me to sit in his car and just miss her. To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.

I wipe the cuff of my jacket under my eyes. Then I choke back my tears and laugh. “Thanks for listening to all that,” I say. “Next time, it’s okay to stop me.” Tony turns on the blinker, looks over his shoulder, and pulls us back into the street. But he doesn’t look at me. “You’re welcome.”