Silence. The loudest sound in the world when it's coming from the one person who's supposed to fill it. For two days, the silence between Emma and me had been a roaring, deafening void. Our boy Johnny is learning that lesson right now, on this very porch, with only the suicidally optimistic mosquitoes for company. He's replaying five little words on a loop—You're not my boyfriend—and wondering how a foundation that felt like solid rock for eighteen years could crumble so fast.
I was tracing patterns in the condensation on my glass of iced tea, watching the porch light draw frantic moths to their doom, when a pair of familiar headlights turned onto my street. Emma's beat-up sedan rattled to a stop at the curb. For a moment, she just sat there, the engine ticking in the quiet night. Then she killed the lights and got out. In her hand, she was holding a greasy paper bag from Mel's Diner. She walked up the pathway slowly, her eyes fixed on the concrete steps, looking hesitant and smaller than usual.
She stopped at the bottom step, holding the bag out like a white flag. "I brought you a truce," she said, her voice soft. "Extra curly fries."
I didn't say anything, just looked at her. Her shoulders sagged. "Okay, look," she said, finally meeting my eyes. The guilt there was real, I could see it. "What I said… it was stupid. And mean. And it wasn't true, not the way it sounded. I'm sorry, Johnny. I was just… mad. You and me… we're more than that stupid word."
Relief washed over me so fast it almost made me dizzy. It was all I needed to hear. The anger I'd been nursing for two days evaporated, leaving only the desperate need for things to be okay again. "I'm sorry too," I said, my voice thick. "I shouldn't have… I just don't trust him."
"I know," she said, climbing the steps to sit next to me. The familiar, comfortable proximity was back, healing the space between us. "Let's just forget him. He's not worth it. Let's just be us." She nudged me with her shoulder. "Now are you going to help me eat these before they get cold?"
The fries tasted like forgiveness. As we sat there, sharing the bag in the warm glow of the porch light, the world slotted back into place. Team J&E was back. The fissure was repaired. Or so I thought.
"Let's get out of here," she said suddenly, crumpling the empty bag.
I didn't have to ask where. There was only one place to go.
Lookout Point was where you went in Oak Creek to feel big and small at the same time. Parked in my dented old sedan, the whole town was spread out below us, a glittering carpet of lights against the dark earth. The dashboard cast a faint green glow on our faces, turning the car into an intimate cocoon suspended between the stars above and the sleeping town below.
The easy silence was back, filled with reminiscing. We talked about the treehouse pact, about the disastrous garage-roof flight, about the time we'd tried to dye my dog blue. All the small, perfect moments that had built the fortress of our friendship. When the laughter subsided, the conversation drifted, as it always did, to the future.
"So, the city apartment," I started, testing the waters. "Still want one with a fire escape?"
Emma was looking out at the lights, her expression soft and wistful. "Of course. We'll sit out there on summer nights and talk about all the weirdos who come to the theater." She turned to look at me, her eyes catching the faint light. The playful mood had shifted into something deeper, more serious. "You know," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "no matter what happens or where we end up… it's always going to be you. You're my person, Johnny. The only one who really gets me."
The words struck me with the force of a physical impact. My person. It was everything I'd ever wanted to hear her say, packaged in two perfect words that meant more than 'love' or 'boyfriend' ever could. It was a confirmation of a truth I'd felt my entire life. It was our pact, reborn and made real under the stars.
"You're my person, too," I managed to say, my voice choked with an emotion too big for the small space of the car.
An electric silence descended, charged and full of meaning. I watched her, and in her eyes, I saw not just friendship, but a reflection of the same profound emotion that was overwhelming me. This was it. This was the moment the whole world stopped holding its breath. I started to lean in. My focus narrowed to her lips, the inches between us disappearing with agonizing slowness.
BZZZT.
The sound was an ugly intrusion, a violation. On the dashboard between us, Emma's phone vibrated violently, its screen lighting up the car with a harsh white glare. The spell was not just broken; it was obliterated. My eyes, and hers, flickered down to the screen. For a split second, I saw the name, stark and clear: Marcus Thorne.
A flicker of something—was it guilt? Or worse, was it excitement?—crossed her face before she snatched the phone. She shoved it into her pocket, turning the screen dark again. The warmth of the moment was gone, replaced by a sudden, inexplicable chill.
"It's nothing," she said, her voice a little too bright, a little too casual. "Probably just my mom wondering where I am."
And there it is. The magic words. 'You're my person.' He's holding onto that sentence like a winning lottery ticket. He doesn't see the flicker in her eyes when that phone lit up. He doesn't register the lie, because her other words were so much louder. He doesn't know he just lost, right at the moment he was sure he had won. Poor kid. He's standing on top of the world, and he can't even feel the ground giving way beneath his feet.