Chicago, 1994. Snow ticks against the diner window. Mara wraps her cold hands around a coffee that went cold an hour ago and watches Theo butter the same piece of toast for the third time. They are twenty-three. For a whole year they've been not-quite-together, a thing made of late buses and almosts. Outside, his bus pulls up to the curb. Theo puts the knife down and looks at her like he wants to say something.

Theo grabs his coat instead and stands. "That's me," he says, nodding at the bus. "I should go." He's been doing this all year, leaving right before the real talk starts. Mara stands too and steps between him and the door. "Not this time," she says.

Theo's shoulders drop. "You always let me go," he says, surprised. "I know," Mara answers. "That was my mistake. Not tonight." Outside, the bus pulls away empty. Theo watches it leave and, for once, doesn't look like he wishes he were on it. He sets his coat down and stays.