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 doesn't sit. He stays standing, hand on the back of the chair. "And then what?" he asks. "We stay tonight, and tomorrow we go back to almost? I can't keep doing almost with you, Mara. It's killing me a little." His voice cracks on the last word.

"Then stop doing almost," Mara says. She stands, walks around the table, and kisses him before she can talk herself out of it. The whole diner seems to hold its breath. When they break apart, Theo laughs, stunned. "A year," he says. "We wasted a whole year."