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.

Mara speaks first. "Don't get on it," she says. The words just fall out. Theo freezes, toast in hand. Through the glass, the bus driver checks his mirror. "Stay. Just tonight. We always run out of time, and I'm so tired of running out." Theo sets the toast down slowly.

Theo sits back down. "Okay," he says. "I'll stay." Then, after a breath: "But I'm moving to Seattle in three weeks, Mara. My brother got me a job. I was going to tell you tonight." The diner suddenly feels very small. Mara stares at him.

"Three weeks," Mara repeats, numb. "You were going to let me find out from a phone call." Theo looks at the table. "I didn't know how to say it." She pushes back from the booth. "You never do. That's the whole problem."

Mara pulls on her coat. "I hope Seattle's everything," she says, and means it, and it still hurts. She walks out into the snow. Theo doesn't follow. Through the window he watches her go, the toast cold on his plate, the words he never said sitting in his chest like a stone.