At the end of February, Rosemary and I were in the 7-Eleven parking lot with hot cocoa on the brain when Rosemary put a hand on my arm. “Stop,” she said. “We can’t go in there.”

“We can’t?”

“I just saw Jason.”

I could feel my eyes widening. If you can scream and whisper at the same time, that’s what I did. “Here?”

Rosemary nodded.

“What is he doing here?”

“I have no idea.” You should be able to guess, though, I thought. Ever since Aruba, he’d been calling a lot.

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Maybe?” Rosemary said.

We decided that since Jason had never met me, I’d go into the store and try to figure out if it was him. Rosemary said I could tell by looking at his left wrist. He wore a braided leather bracelet—she said he never took it off.

This 7-Eleven was pretty big. There was a circular counter in the center for the cashiers. Off to the left was the to-go food—with counters for coffee and tea, the Slurpee machines, shelves of sandwiches, yogurt, and drinks. On the right there were aisles of chips, magazines, pantyhose, replacement windshield wipers, and gallon jugs of washer fluid.

I felt like a spy as I noted a dark head of hair in the mayonnaise, cereal, and dish soap aisle.

But the man reading the ingredients on a box of Honey Nut Cheerios was way old. He was wearing a suit with the tie loosened. He could have been forty. Or sixty. It was hard to tell.

“Can I help you?” he said when he caught me staring.

“Um …” I turned in embarrassment. But then I spotted another dark head of hair, clear across the store by the coffee. Trying not to appear to be hurrying, I made my way over to the doughnut case and pretended to study the options, every now and then sneaking a look at the guy busy reading the tea bags and then putting them back.

That had to be him. He looked rich and young. He had thick, dark eyebrows and conservatively cut brown hair shot through with streaks of blond. A strong jaw. Broad, square shoulders. Everything he was wearing looked like it had just been washed and ironed.

And the tea drinking confirmed it. I mean, a guy our age drinking tea is weird, right? And so was Jason. That had to be him.

But when he reached with his left hand for a cup from the dispenser, the cuff of his shirt pulled away from his wrist: no bracelet.

Rosemary had said left wrist, hadn’t she? I turned from the doughnut case, walked past the checkout and through the double doors, and rounded the corner of the building, calling out “Which wrist did you say?” before I realized that Rosemary was not alone. Standing close to her—way too close—was yet another male figure with dark brown hair. Compared to the cute guy inside, this new version of what it took my brain a full minute to understand was the real Jason was a mess.

He looked to have a few days’ growth of beard, and he was wearing a thin gray sweatshirt that hung off his shoulders like it hadn’t been washed recently. His dark hair was shaggy in the back and long over his ears. But because he was leaning against the open door of his car, one elbow cocked, the loose fabric of his sleeve had slid down and exposed his wrist. His left wrist. Where I could see a braided leather bracelet, plain as day.

“Are you Juliet?” he asked, and smiled in a way that was a little sad and a little scary at the same time. There was something about his eyes that made me wonder how long it had been since he’d slept.

Rosemary looked at me and shook her head slightly to let me know that I shouldn’t answer his question, presumably because she had this under control. “What are you doing here, Jason?” she said, her jaw tight, her arms folded over her chest.

Jason blinked hard, but he didn’t shift his gaze. He was still looking at me like he was hoping he could read something in my surprise, get access to information that Rosemary wasn’t giving up.

“Well?” Rosemary said, stepping between us. Finally, Jason met her gaze.

“I just want to talk to you,” he said. “You aren’t answering my letters, and I can’t get through to you on the phone. Did Aruba mean nothing to you? How can you not want to see me again? I thought maybe if I drove to your house—”

“My house?” Rosemary said. “You mean the one where my parents live? My dad will call the cops on you.”

“You could introduce me,” Jason said. “I mean, I’m not a bad guy. He might like me.”

“Jason, you aren’t my boyfriend.” I could hear the frustration starting to crack through Rosemary’s calm. “I’m not going to introduce you to my parents. I’m not going to talk to you on the phone. It’s over.”

“No,” Jason said. “In Aruba, see—”

“I do see,” Rosemary said. “I see that you’re acting crazy. You have to stop calling.”

Her words were harsh, but maybe they were what he needed, because suddenly, Jason was standing up straighter. He tucked his chin like he was literally swallowing her words. “I guess I should go,” he said.

Rosemary nodded. She didn’t relax her jaw. She uncrossed her arms only to put her hands on her hips. As she did, her half-zipped hoodie shifted slightly. At her neck I could see the glint of a gold chain. She was wearing Jason’s necklace.

I saw Jason notice it only a half second after I did. This was bad.

“You want me to go?” he said, smirking now. “It’s what you really want?” Later, Rosemary swore she hadn’t heard any kind of smirk in Jason’s tone. After all, she pointed out, he probably saw only the chain. Without the diamond, how could he be sure?

But he knew. I’d seen it in his eyes.

“I do want you to go,” Rosemary said. “It’s what I really want.” So Jason got into his car and with a roar of the engine backed out of the parking lot and zoomed off down the road. Rosemary and I jogged back to school.

I didn’t tell her how scary I thought this whole situation was getting, because I didn’t want to open the door to that kind of conversation. I didn’t want to hear how afraid she was for me. But later that night, I found myself teasing out an understanding of what exactly had gone down. I was worrying. Like my mom must have been worrying about me.

Here’s what else worried me: something about Jason’s gaunt face, his desperate attempt to hold on to Rosemary, reminded me of Lucas.

In the locker room after jogging, Rosemary had thrown her running shoes into her locker in frustration, saying, “Why can’t he see that it’s never going to happen? Why do people insist on forcing the impossible?”

I could have answered her, but I didn’t. I could have explained that until she fell in love she would never know that people in love almost always try to force the impossible. They cannot imagine letting go of what they have. Or what they wish they had.

Like Jason, like Lucas, like me, like Dex—none of us could imagine changing the way we felt. And yet Lucas had told me that for him and me, that’s exactly what would happen. We would separate. He would enlist. I would go to law school and have a good life.

It seemed impossible. I couldn’t accept that that version of the future could be real.