To: vladlena@gmail.com, waverlydotts@gmail.com

Cc: kitsykidd@gmail.com

From: cornellcorrinne@gmail.com

Subject: Most.Epic.Last.Night.Ever.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

—William Shakespeare

To my girls,

Tomorrow is our last night together before I head off to Cornell. As you all well know, I’ve been planning this evening since June, and it’s going to be legendary. Below is a copy of my itinerary. There’s very little wiggle room, so please be in the correct places at the assigned times. (Think of it as theater—you don’t want to miss your curtain call.)

Remember: it’s how you say goodbye that counts the most.

Corrinne’s Last Night:

5 p.m.: Obligatory Corcoran Family Time (Ugh!)

6 p.m.: Group Meet at The Archive for Rooftails (Yeah!)

8 p.m.: Corrinne and Benson’s Farewell Dinner at Le Cirque

11 p.m.: Group Meet at Terminal 5 for Hipster Hat Trick Set

2 a.m.: Group Continues Party at the Jane Hotel

5 a.m.: Brooklyn Bridge Kiss (This is just me and Benson, obvs, but isn’t this the most romantic idea ever?)

XO,

Your Corrinne

PS. Kitsy, I wish you were going to be here!

5:32 p.m. Morton Square, West Village, NYC.

“CORRINNE!” MOM YELLS THROUGH MY bedroom door. “Stop staring at yourself and come spend some quality time with your brother and parents.”

I take one last look in the full-length mirror, then step over my suitcases and out into the living room.

Maria, our housekeeper, unplugs the vacuum and holds her hand over heart. “Mi corazón,” she says. “You look so grown-up.”

I smooth my cobalt-blue Diane von Furstenberg silk dress. “Thanks,” I say. “I spent every lunch break at my internship agonizing over what I should wear tonight until I discovered this. It’s on point without looking like I tried too hard, which is my fashion signature.”

My friend Waverly has a theory that people remember you in one of two outfits: what you wore the first day of high school or what you wore the last time they saw you. When you won’t be with your friends again until winter break, you better dress perfectly on your last night because that’s how you’ll be frozen in everyone’s minds.

My mom gives me an up-down eye stare from the couch. “You look nice,” she finally says.

Nice is not how I want to be remembered, especially not after I spent the entire summer planning the perfect swan song down to the specific nail polish I would wear.

Good as gold.

I check my iPhone’s clock. I need to make this fast. Tonight is about saying goodbye to my boyfriend, my friends, and, of course, my city. There’s no time to fight with my mom over her backhanded compliments. I’ve spent enough time over the past eighteen years doing that, and I would rather part ways on friendly terms.

My dad, who’s proudly wearing a “Cornell Parent” sweatshirt (embarrassing!), pats a spot on our couch next to my little brother, Tripp. “Come sit with your family before you skip off into the concrete jungle.”

Maria pulls me in close. “I can’t believe my little chiquita is off to college. I’m so proud of you.”

“I’ll miss you,” I tell Maria, who’s worked for my family ever since I can remember.

She whispers back: “I won’t be there to keep your room clean, so remember that Lysol is your friend.”

I laugh and hug Maria one more time before she heads out.

Snuggling into the couch with my family, I look out on the Hudson River and watch a yellow ferry zip across to Jersey City. “I’m definitely going to miss this view,” I say. “My dorm room probably looks out to a parking lot or something equally tragic. Didn’t someone write some long, depressing novel about how sad a room without a view is? That novel’s about to become my life.”

Sometimes, I think it’d be easier to leave for college if I hadn’t grown up somewhere so fantastic. For most people, going off to college is an escape, but for me, it feels like a major downgrade.

“It’s not going to be the same without you,” Tripp says, patting my knee. “I actually liked having you home for the summer. Life’s easier on me when you and your antics are here to distract our parents.”

“Thanks,” I say, reaching over and tussling Tripp’s sun-streaked hair. (Skateboarding has some redeeming qualities.)

I wag my finger at him. “If you’re nice to me for the next few minutes, I promise to sneak you into some ridiculous parties during Family Weekend. Just don’t tell Mom and Dad,” I say, winking.

My dad laughs and my mom rolls her eyes.

Tripp loudly clears his throat, which has finally stopped crackling from puberty. “Excuse me, Corrinne, but I believe you need to have friends to be invited to parties. Simple algebra. A plus B equals C.”

Puberty turned him into such a smart aleck. He’s starting to remind me of myself at that age, which is terrifying. Good luck to my parents.

“Tripp, I have a friend there already,” I argue. “My horse, Sweetbread. Hello, she’s the whole reason I’m going to middle-of-nowhere-Cornell.”

I had always planned on going to a college in New York City, but the Cornell equestrian coach recruited Sweetbread and me as if he were trying to get the final rose on The Bachelor. Finally, I relented. . . . For the sake of a horse and my favorite sport, dressage, I’m moving to Ithaca, which is four hours upstate and the capital of nowhere. My parents are thrilled because Cornell is an Ivy League school, and they think I’m finally fulfilling my “potential.”

Hopefully, their excitement will transfer into a larger spending allowance.

My mom turns toward me. “Did Nellie Lutsen ever call you back? I just love that name; it’s so Little House on the Prairie.” She runs her fingers through her blowout. “I can’t believe we’ll be meeting her tomorrow.”

Lately, my mom has this annoying tendency to say “we” about college when it’s really just “me” who’s going alone.

“No, Nellie never called back,” I say. “She better realize she’s lucky to have me as a roommate. I essentially have a master’s in dorm room feng shui after spending two and a half years at boarding school.”

Nellie is going to be my roommate at Cornell. She’s from Indianapolis, which is, like, the capital of race car driving or something Midwest like that. She’s not on Facebook or Vine (I know, weird!), and we’ve talked on the phone for only three minutes. It was enough time for her to veto my matching Horchow bedspread plan . . . and enough time for me to realize we probably aren’t going to be best friends.

Or, friends at all.

In fact, it could be days—or even weeks—before I have any friends again, which is one of the reasons I want to make tonight count. I’ve been the new kid before. Hello, the six months I lived in Broken Spoke, Texas, with my grandparents during the recession!

I know from personal experience that settling in takes time.

“Quack, quack, quack,” my iPhone timer squawks. I press cancel and stand up.

I shrug. “Apologies to my darling family, but I’m on a schedule, and this alarm is keeping me on track,” I say.

“What’s the big hurry?” Tripp asks, stretching out on the couch.

I swing my purse over my shoulder and breathe in. “Tripp, I’ve had seventy-four days of summer to figure out my big goodbye. And now I’m down to twelve hours. That’s seven hundred and twenty minutes to say farewell to everything—and everyone—that has made me me for the last eighteen years. So I love you, kid, but I’ve got to be going.”

Family might be forever, but the last night before college is not.

I check myself out one last time in the hall mirror.

“Whoa! Serious hormone and anxiety alert. Are you going zany because of that boy Benson?” Tripp pipes up from the couch.

I look at him in the mirror’s reflection. “Benson is eighteen, so I wouldn’t call him a boy, and no, we aren’t even going to stay together. He’s going to Pepperdine in California, which is as far away from Ithaca as London.”

I switch my gold cuff to my left wrist to create better symmetry with my hair’s side part. “I’d only do that type of long distance for Prince Harry, and even that’s a stretch because I’m on the fence about both redheads and age gaps greater than ten years.”

The truth is that while I’ll be sad to leave the comfort of having a boyfriend, I’m already mostly over Benson. Only one boy has ever been able to drive me crazy, and it isn’t him.

But I’ve promised myself not to think of that boy all night, even if he’s still lurking in this city somewhere.

I spin around to face Tripp. “I want to get on with my epic night in peace. Is that too much to ask, dear brother?”

Tripp laughs. “Epic and peace don’t go together, Miss Ivy League. That’s basically an oxymoron.”

I turn around and wave my hand at him. “Whatever, moron,” I say playfully, and head for the door.

“Wait!” My mom scoots past me and opens our front closet. “We bought you a going-away present.”

I sigh. “Even though I’m now sixty seconds behind schedule, I suppose I can stay around for a present,” I tease.

From the closet, my mom pulls out a large framed photograph of the Hudson River. I can tell right away that it was taken from our window—it’s our exact view.

“We know that you’re nostalgic about leaving New York City,” my dad says. “So we figured you could take a little bit of home with you. It’s by your favorite photographer—Kitsy.”

I admire the photo and swallow hard—I’m not usually sentimental about familial matters, but something about this genuinely touches me.

But alas, being emotional is not penciled in, and I don’t have any extra time to redo my mascara, so I pull it together.

“I love it. I thought my going-away gift would pearls or a gemstone—you know, something actually valuable—but this is even better.”

My mom gives me a side hug. “Wow. You really are growing up,” she says.

I let her hold me for a few more seconds than normal before pulling away.

“Tick, tock,” I say, pretending to look at a watch. “I’ve got to jet, but I’ll see you all tomorrow for the road trip. I’ll be the one with the bags under her eyes and the pounding hangover. Probably not the best look for my first day, but priorities.” I wave. “First impressions aren’t half as important as parting ones. Ta-ta.”

I shut the front door behind me and lean my back against it.

Is this really the start of goodbye?

6:08 p.m. The Archive Building, West Village, NYC.

HOLY HOLLY GOLIGHTLY! I’M TOTALLY winded from all these stairs, and there’s no way I’m making my entrance while I’m this verklempt. I stop and rest before climbing the rest of the steps to the rooftop.

Finally, I’m standing on the sprawling rooftop of Waverly’s new apartment building, The Archive.

The Archive is a historic, redbrick building. It’s around twenty-stories high, and its roof towers over most of the West Village’s smaller dwellings. Waverly just moved here into her very own studio loft, and I can now totally understand why she picked this building instead of living in the dorms: it’s not only a mecca for young celebrities, but this rooftop is also a flawless party platform.

I gawk at the unobstructed view of the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building like I’m a tourist, not a native New Yorker.

There’s so much to New York that I haven’t even seen, despite growing up here.

Am I unstable to leave all of this behind? Is going off to Ithaca some sort of quarter-life crisis?

Maybe I should’ve consulted a shrink on this one.

Waverly, dressed in a black kimono-type dress and gold heels, saunters over and points at the view. “See, Corrinne, I told you being on top is best. Dear Waverly is always right.”

I laugh. While I spent my summer interning (aka running the Keurig coffee machine) at Town & Country, Waverly used the summer to launch her own advice blog. She has received some decent publicity for her candor. The only downside to it all is that Waverly now refers to herself as Dear Waverly.

Constantly.

I give her outfit the once-over. “I can tell you’re already dressing very downtown,” I say, referring her all-black ensemble. “You look very Vogue.”

Waverly hands me a champagne flute.

“When you live below Fourteenth Street . . .” Waverly pauses. “Leave the pearls behind and do as they do,” she finishes.

She looks around at the view. “This is the perfect area for a blogger-slash-college student, even though my mom vows she’ll never visit. She has such a Madison Avenue outlook on the city and she’s not into me being a first-generation downtowner.”

The Dotts have been an Upper East Side family since the Revolution, and having a downtown-residing daughter is giving Mrs. Dotts a heart attack.

“You can visit your mom every day when you go uptown to Columbia for classes.”

“True,” Waverly says. “But I doubt I will. I’m digging my roots into Bleecker,” she says, naming one of my favorite streets.

I sigh. “I’m going to miss Bleecker,” I say. “What am I going to do without Murray’s Cheese and Amy’s Bread?”

Waverly gives my hand a small squeeze.

“I’m sure the dorm food will be fantastic—and not at all fattening,” she says, and then bursts out laughing.

She holds her hand against my cheek. “Corrinne, are you regretting your decision to follow a horse to Cornell?” She shrugs. “I get that Kate Middleton followed a prince to uni as the Brits call it, but an animal, Corrinne? Really? We could’ve done Columbia together.”

I laugh. “It’s not any horse. It’s my Sweetbread, and I promise I’m going to move back here after college.” I sigh. “I guess part of me thought it would be a good idea to do something different than the city.”

“We just lived in Connecticut for three school years,” Waverly says, referring to our time at Kent. “If I never see a strip mall or TGI Fridays again, I’d be thrilled. And I’ll probably be struck dead for saying this because people are so cultish about it, but Target is overrated. It’s a Wal-Mart with wider aisles.” She points toward herself. “My identity rests in being a city girl, and I’m finally home for good.”

I playfully stomp my heel into the ground. “Hey, I’m a Manhattanite, too!” I argue. “Nowhere has ever felt as home as the city and my friends.”

I look at my iPhone. “Speaking of which, where are Vladlena and Benson?” I ask. “It’s just me, you, and a bottle of champagne. I’m not complaining exactly, but I have a timetable.”

Waverly nods. “Oh yes, everyone knows about your agenda. I only hope you’re not putting too much pressure on one night. We’re going to have plenty more. You’re acting a bit fatalistic.”

I put my hand on my hip. “Thanks, Daria Downer, for that rousing pep talk. I know we’ll have more nights together, but you know that everything changes after high school.” I lean against the railing. “We’re standing at a threshold, and I want to enjoy my last night before it’s all different.”

“So this has nothing to do with Bub—” Waverly starts to say.

“There they are!” I interrupt Waverly, waving. I know the direction she’s steering, and I don’t want to sail there—not tonight.

I point toward Vladlena and Benson, who are coming up the stairs. Vladlena is barefoot and carrying four-inch heels in her hand. Smart. My nude pumps are already pinching my toes, and this is only the first stop.

“We’re here, we’re here,” Vladlena says, approaching me and kissing both my cheeks.

Benson swoops in and spins me around. One of the perks of a tall, lacrosse-playing boyfriend.

As I specifically requested, he’s wearing his baby-blue slacks, a white button down, and a royal-blue blazer. The monochromatic palette brings out his tan. Plus, we coordinate. In fact, our whole lives harmonize. We both grew up in Manhattan, but we didn’t meet until boarding school.

Once, someone asked us if we were twins. Minus the incestuous implications, I took that as a total compliment—to Benson, that is.

Benson cups my chin in his palm. “It’s almost our expiration date,” he says. “Better eat me up.”

Vladlena fake gags and Waverly rolls her eyes.

Ever since we started going out in May, Benson and I have known that our expiration date would be when we both went off to college. In my opinion, it’s the healthiest way to look at high school relationships.

Greek yogurt shouldn’t be the only thing that has a goodbye date.

I give Benson a kiss on the lips. “We have until tomorrow,” I say.

Waverly coughs loudly. “Lovebirds. It’s champagne time. We all know that Corrinne’s budgeted out every minute.”

She points at the southwestern edge of the roof. “Let’s go sit over there,” she directs us. “There’s a good breeze, we can see the Statue of Liberty, and we can check out the progress on the Freedom Tower.”

Benson takes the champagne bottle from the ice bucket. “I finally got ahold of my roommate, George, and he’s in the city tonight. He invited me—or, rather, all of us—to a party.”

Benson’s roommate at Pepperdine is a friend of a friend, and he lives in Greenwich, Connecticut, which is only about forty-five minutes away.

I put my hand over his. “You told him that you couldn’t, right?”

I know I’m acting like a total Post-it note, which is what my friends and I call stage-three clingers, but I have a plan and it doesn’t involve hanging out with Benson’s new college friends. Tonight’s not about the future, it’s about the now—and the past.

Benson shrugs. “I told him I’d see. It’d be sorta nice to know someone before college starts. News alert, Corrinne—not everyone is bringing a horse along in their luggage.”

“Funny,” I say.

While Benson isn’t overly possessive, I can tell he’s secretly jealous about my longest-standing relationship: my relationship with Sweetbread. Most guys are; it’s hard to compete with a dancing horse.

Vladlena can probably tell how uncomfortable I’m feeling about Benson trying to highjack the night because she picks up her champagne flute. “To Corrinne’s last night. Let it be everything she wants it to be.”

Perfect, I think. That’s what I want it to be.

We all chime flutes. The clinking of glass is one of my favorite sounds in the world. It’s better than even applause.

Vladlena crosses her tanned legs, the result of a summer spent in the Hamptons. She’s a friend from boarding school, but she’s originally from Russia. She’s heading to McGill University in Canada in a few weeks. “I hop countries like you hop boys,” she teased me.

She leans forward: “I remember when I left Russia for Kent. My friends threw this huge party. It was my favoritest night.”

Vladlena’s English is perfect, and she knows grammar’s obsessive-compulsive rules better than Waverly or me; favoritest is just one of our words.

“Why?” I ask. “What made it favoritest?”

“Nothing went as planned,” she explains. “But it was the last night before things started changing, so it’s an important memory. Symbolic. You always think back to your last moment with someone—way more than your first.”

I clap my hands. “Exactly.”

I’m glad that someone gets what I’m trying to do tonight.

“Think about George’s party,” Benson says. He takes off his jacket and folds it over his arm. “Maybe we could swap out our stuffy dinner for it?”

I glare at Benson. “Le Cirque is iconic—not stuffy.”

Waverly winks. “Semantics, Corrinne.” She turns to Benson. “I’m always up for meeting new people—and by that, I mean guys. Just saying.”

I evil-eye both of them.

“What? I’m trying to build my brand,” she explains.

I’m about to lay into them when I hear my phone ringing in my purse. (“We Can’t Stop” is the perfect ringtone for tonight.) I pull it out. Kitsy, it reads, and I see a picture of my best friend from Broken Spoke flash up the screen.

“This is worth the interruption,” I say. I wag my finger at the group. “While I take this, please think how you’re making me feel, after everything I put into tonight.”

Do people have no appreciation for hard work anymore? Isn’t that what our country was built on?

“C’mon, Corrinne, it’s a night, not an algorithm,” Waverly says. “You’re acting very A Beautiful Mind about all of this.”

When you’ve been friends with someone for fourteen years, they can say pretty much anything to you, because you’re more like siblings than friends.

But she’s wrong. It’s more than a night. It’s the last night, the last chance, the last moments.

I roll my eyes at Waverly, grab my phone, and move to the edge of the roof, near a railing.

“Kitsy!” I squeal, answering her FaceTime call. “I can’t believe this is it. I leave tomorrow!”

Kitsy smooths down her curly blonde hair. “Sorry! I’m all flustered; it’s so dry here, the trees are bribing the dogs.” She wipes a bead of sweat off her forehead. “I was outside all afternoon helping out the new Mockingbirdettes. I can’t believe I’m not officially one of them anymore.”

The Mockingbirdettes are the cheer squad in Broken Spoke, and Kitsy used to be their captain. Some people—most New Yorkers, in fact—talk with their hands, just the way Kitsy talks with her pom-poms. But she’s leaving that behind when she starts art school at the University of Texas in Austin.

“I know what you mean,” I say. “It’s weird to be in limbo and not really belong anywhere, but I’m sure everyone at UT will love you. Besides, Hands will be there, too.”

Kitsy smiles and taps her screen. “I see you went with the Van Gogh blue dress. Perfect. So how’s it all going?”

I pause and look over to where Vladlena, Benson, and Waverly are all laughing and drinking champagne as if tonight were just any night.

“Benson is trying to change our plans, and Waverly’s acting boy-crazy. It doesn’t feel meaningful like I planned it to be.”

Kitsy waves at me. “Hello, Pessimistic Penelope! The night’s just starting. Six p.m. is practically mid-morning to y’all New Yorkers.”

I shrug. “I know. But it seems like Benson’s totally already over me. He actually suggested canceling dinner to hang out with some new Pepperdine friends.”

Kitsy raises her perfectly groomed eyebrows. She really could be the next Estée Lauder.

“What?” I ask.

Kitsy inhales deeply, so I mentally prepare myself for one of Kitsy’s breathless monologues.

“Corrinne. I say this only because I heart you so much, but are you sure you’re not talking about you being over Benson? That is, if you were ever actually sweet on him to begin with? I say this with love.”

Kitsy met Benson when she visited me this summer and agreed he’s a Five, which means he’s cute, smart, athletic, nice-ish, and funny. But she also said, “You can put boots in the oven but it doesn’t make them biscuits,” which in Texan means that you’re trying to make something—in this case my relationship—into something it’s not.

I sigh. “Kitsy, we’re not in Shakespearean love or anything, but I still want to have our romantic last night in the city. We’re doing Le Cirque and the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s my big send-off before I’m on my own.”

Kitsy holds up her index finger. “One, you always have me, and two, that stuff is only romantic if you actually like the person. Otherwise it’s just a pretty backdrop to your loneliness.”

Kitsy has a very artistic way of looking at the world. “Maybe you’re right,” I say. “But it’s on the agenda, and so I’m doing it. I’ll be looking back to this night when I’m ancient and thirty, and I want it to be memorable.” I shrug. “Besides, tonight’s my last night to officially be in control, and I’m not abandoning that.”

Kitsy holds up her index finger. “Hold on a second,” Kitsy says. “Hands is fixin’ to tell you good luck.”

Hands, Kitsy’s on-and-off-again boyfriend, pops onto the screen.

“You’ll love college,” Hands says. “Everyone says so. Remember not to showcase that spoiled city girl angle like you did when you first lived here, and you’ll have no problems.”

I laugh. Hands is probably right. When I lived in Broken Spoke for six months, I didn’t exactly make the best first impression. Even more reason for me to be apprehensive about college.

My grandma says that, like technology, I can take a while to warm up to.

Kitsy jumps into the screen. “I’m back!” she exclaims. “Hey, I know you’re on a schedule, so I’ll let you go. But have a great night, Corrinne.”

I wave at Kitsy.

She holds up her hand. “Wait—try to remember, people usually fixate on what they didn’t do—not what they did.”

I stick my tongue out at Kitsy. “If that’s your way of telling me to call Bubby, you’re going, as y’all Texans say, catawampus. After all, he’s the one living in my city, and he made his priorities clear at Broken Spoke prom. Tonight is about me, not some old boyfriend.”

Kitsy nods dramatically. “Uh-huh,” she says. “Okay, we love you!”

“Love you. If you see my grandparents, tell my grandma I’d love some cowboy bread in a care package.”

Kitsy nods again and blows me an air kiss.

I send one back before ending the call.

Then I take three deep breaths and suck in the city air. Even my conversation with Kitsy didn’t go as I had hoped. Doesn’t anyone else get how important goodbyes are?

I put on my best everything-is-fine smile, which I inherited from my mom, and I march over to the group. “What are you all laughing about?”

“Vladlena was imitating her new roommate,” Benson says. “Canadians do mad weird things with their ‘o’ sounds.”

I hold up my hand. “Hi. Can we put an embargo on talking about college? When we all get back for Christmas, it’s going to be college this, college that. Can we please put it off until then?”

Waverly bites her lip. “What do you want to discuss instead? Maybe talking points should’ve been included on your agenda.”

I point toward myself. “I want to talk about how much fun we’ve had together. How we’re going to miss each other. How we’re going to miss this,” I say, gesturing out at the city.

“I still live here,” Waverly argues. “Personally, no offense to you all, but I think it’s pathological that people pick towns and states they’d normally have no interest in even visiting and go live there for college. I mean, Addison Carrington is going to school in Ohio, and says that there are Amish crossing signs near her school. Please explain that decision to me.”

I cross my arms. “No more college talk.”

I wish I had magical powers and I could freeze time. Maybe then I could get everyone to realize how fast everything around us is changing. Maybe then they would hold on tight to the now, like I’m trying to do.

But nothing lately—starting with Broken Spoke’s prom—has gone the way I hoped.

If just tonight could . . .

“Quack, quack, quack,” goes my phone.

I stand up and make a come-hither motion to Benson. “We need to get going. But first, I should probably go downstairs to the bathroom.” I check my phone again. “Forget it! There’s not time, so I’ll just have to wait.”

I hold out my hand and pull Benson to his feet from a rocking chair.

“Thanks for the rooftails, Waverly. I’ll see you girls at the concert!” I say. “Can’t believe Rider is playing at Terminal Five. Someone we know has, like, an actual career. When did we get so old?”

Rider is originally from Broken Spoke, but he left school early to pursue his music career.

“I don’t remember rock musician as an option at career day per se,” Waverly says. “But I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty impressed with how he climbed the haystacks out of that town.”

She and Vladlena give me hugs.

“Tonight will be great,” Vladlena whispers. “Just let it be.”

Scheming, planning, and plotting are my strengths. Letting it be has never been part of my skill set.

Letting it be is for hippies and the Beatles, not Corrinne Corcoran.

I take Benson’s hand and lead him down the stairs. I try not to wish he were somebody else. Tonight is supposed to be about being in this moment—not wanting a different one.

7:51 p.m. Lexington Avenue and Fifty-Second Street, NYC.

THE TAXI SPEEDS UP FOR about six seconds before the driver slams on the brakes again.

I plug my ears to block out the symphony of car and truck horns and look up at the stopped traffic ahead.

“That’s it!” I put my hand on the door handle. “Let’s get out and walk,” I say. “We’re completely at a standstill.”

My plan to sightsee all my favorite spots on the way to the restaurant slightly backfired when we hailed one of the few taxis without working AC and managed to hit gridlock all the way uptown.

I’m sure I’ll soon miss being able to flag a ride with my hand and not have it be considered hitchhiking, but right now I’m so over relying on others to get around.

And if I keep my grades up, I get to bring my pickup truck, Billie Jean the Second, to school second semester. She’s my favorite accessory because we’re such an unexpected combination. It’s the kind of pairing designers could only dream of because it doesn’t fit, yet it works.

Benson pays the taxi driver, and we maneuver our way through the paralyzed traffic and onto the sidewalk.

I march ahead, determined to not let this hiccup get us off track.

“We should’ve taken the subway,” Benson calls out as he chases after me. “Everyone who grew up here knows that you don’t take a taxi on a Saturday night. Too much bridge and tunnel traffic.”

I spin around. “If we took the subway, I wouldn’t have gotten to say goodbye to my favorite diner Bus Stop, the Flatiron Building, or Rockefeller Center.”

“I’m sorry, Corrinne.” Benson grabs my hand. “I only meant that it would’ve been faster. And you do realize that those are places, and not people.”

He lets go of my hand and walks up to a lamppost. “Goodbye, lamp.” He nods. “Yup, it’s pretty hard to say goodbye to inanimate objects.”

I lock my jaw. “You simply don’t get it,” I say. “And please look for a green awning. I need to go to the bathroom now.”

Benson pretends to use binoculars. “Mission Possible: Searching for Starbucks. Ten Four.”

I pause and squeeze his hand. Maybe I’m being too hard on him.

We’re still pretty much on schedule. My timer hasn’t even gone off yet. Not to mention, Benson is wearing a blazer in eighty degrees without complaint just because Le Cirque, my favorite restaurant, requires it. In fact, he always plays along, which a lot of guys wouldn’t.

And, he’s silly and doesn’t take life so seriously, which is good, since we’re teenagers after all. I’ve dated guys who think of themselves as mini-adults, and it’s off-putting. Our culture is obsessed with youth for good reason.

I smile at Benson. After all, I didn’t spend an hour doing my makeup to frown all night.

“Hey, Benson, in a city of millions, isn’t it funny how we all use the same fifty bathrooms?”

He throws his arms up as if he scored a touchdown. “Spotted: Starbucks. Across the street and two blocks up. I win!”

At the stoplight, I dash across the street.

“I’ll wait outside,” Benson says.

I duck into Starbucks and brace myself for the line. The thing about Starbucks’ bathrooms is that there’s always a line.

Which makes me think about college dorm bathrooms and having to wear shower shoes. Gross.

Focus on tonight.

Luckily, everyone seems to be more interested in their coffee milkshakes than in the bathroom. The sign says Occupied, but no one else is in line.

The door swings open, and I’m about to go in when I hear “Corrinne?” coming from the previous occupant’s mouth.

He’s wearing a navy suit and has a plastic press badge around his neck. We’re standing in a Starbucks two thousand miles away from where I last saw him, but it’s unmistakably him—Bubby, my ex-boyfriend from Broken Spoke.

It’s not that I haven’t imagined running into him after I found out he was living in my city and interning at the New York Times. In fact, I’ve thought up about a dozen different scenarios where we’d bump into each other. However, none of them involved bathrooms.

And in these made-up scenarios, it was never my very last night in the city.

Confession: Sometimes I went three avenues and eight blocks out of way to walk by the Times’ offices.

Fate-tempting is how I thought of it. But I never saw him, and I never quite figured what I would say if I did.

We stand silent for a minute. Words jumble in my head like a crossword puzzle. Finally, Bubby laughs and shakes his head.

“I didn’t figure you were the Starbucks type. I guessed you more for a cute coffee shop in the West Village with literati and macaroons. But I’m happy to run into you.” He pauses and stares me straight in the eyes. “Hey, do you want to grab a coffee?” He nods toward the barista and counter.

“I’m just here for the bathroom.” I point at the open door.

Bubby runs his fingers through his hair. In Broken Spoke, I rarely saw him out of a football jersey. Now, here he is in a suit, in my city.

Is this what life after high school is like? Running into people you once knew all dressed up in grown-up costumes?

I cross my arms. “Besides, we’ve obviously shown each other a few times that we don’t know each other as well as we thought.”

That sounds harsh, but it’s true. Tonight isn’t about second chances; it’s about goodbye.

“I guess that’s a no to the coffee then?” Bubby says, lifting an eyebrow.

I motion outside. “I have a date,” I say. “And it’s my last night here before I go to college.” I shake my head. “Maybe if you had gotten in touch with me when you first moved to New York . . . After all, I only found out you were living here from Kitsy when she visited in July.”

There’s a confused patron looking for a bathroom and Bubby gestures for him to go ahead.

It’s funny how a few months can turn someone from more than a friend into a total stranger. I don’t even know where Bubby is going to college. We don’t talk anymore, and he’s against social media because he probably thinks he’ll be president one day and is worried about anything that could damage his reputation.

I know I could’ve easily asked Kitsy where Bubby finally decided on for school, but that would be admitting I still care. Which I’m not willing to do—at least not publicly.

Bubby reaches out and touches my bare arm. “I should’ve called you when I moved here,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

I shiver. “The AC is arctic in here,” I lie. “And there’s no need to apologize for not calling—it’s your life.”

To be honest, I wish Kitsy had never told me about Bubby living here. Once she let it slip, I started looking for him everywhere. Around corners. In diner booths. On the faces of people walking down the street. In a city of millions, there was always one person on my mind.

It’s much easier to forget about someone when you aren’t constantly wondering if—or when—you’ll run into them.

The only thing that’s helped to distract me from it was Benson, and planning tonight.

I pull my arm back. “I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ve mapped out my perfect goodbye, and I’m late for it.”

I head for the door.

“What about the bathroom?” Bubby shouts out to me.

I don’t bother to turn around. I’m afraid what will happen if I do.

Bubby’s not even worth a goodbye.

Out on the street, Benson smiles and calls out, “Tick, tock.”

I try to laugh, but nothing comes out.

“You look like a ghost,” he says.

This is an accomplishment because I spray tanned—using the darkest solution—just yesterday. I must look like a ghost because I’ve seen one.

If your ex wants to move to your city, you should get to approve it like they do with foreign countries and visas. There should be some level of diplomacy before invading an ex’s territories. Where’s the UN when you need them?

“You okay, Corrinne?” Benson asks me.

I look at my iPhone. Three minutes and fifty-two seconds until the next timer goes off.

I start walking fast. “I’m fine. I was thinking how I feel bad for that crocodile in Peter Pan,” I say. “It would be awful to swallow a clock. You’d always feel like time was running out and that you were going to miss your chance.”

Benson grabs my hand and pulls me uptown. “You’re weird, Corrinne,” he says. “But for tonight, you’re my weird Corrinne.”

And it feels good to belong to someone, even if it’s only for a few more hours.

Broken Spoke High Prom, April. Broken Spoke, Texas.

Kitsy points toward a paper bridge and skyscraper. “I tried to convince everyone that a New York, New York theme was lame,” she explains. “But the prom committee wouldn’t budge. I’ve been lucky enough to go to New York, thanks to you, but for most people here, it’s like a place from a fairy tale. Magical, and a little bit hard to believe.”

I look around at the decorations: a cardboard-stand-up Statue of Liberty, dozens of strands of twinkle lights, and a faux Manhattan skyline complete with a full moon.

It looks DIY, and not in a good way, but I wave my hand at Kitsy. “I love it. What’s better than New York?”

“Nothing,” Kitsy squeals. “Now that I see it, I’m into it, too. . . . It’s romantic.”

Kitsy twirls in her vintage-store-score of a prom dress. It’s yellow and taffeta, which normally screams out child pageant star, yet Kitsy kills it.

“I’m so happy. Thanks for flying out for this Podunk prom. I’m sure it feels weird for you to be back in the Spoke, but to me, it feels perfect.” She points at me. “The only thing that sticks out is that your dress is way hotter—and more expensive—than any of the girls’ here.”

I look down at my long backless black gown. “I’m glad it gets your stamp of approval. I totally concur with your philosophy that the key to looking good at prom is not shopping in the prom section.”

Kitsy pulls me over toward the punch bowl. “You should’ve seen Bubby’s face when he first saw you!” she squeals. “He almost died when you turned around.”

“Really?”

She leans in. “When are you going to talk to him?” she whispers.

“After prom,” I say. “What if he isn’t into my idea? I don’t want to ruin the whole night. Time management isn’t only a skill for balancing school work and extracurriculars.”

Kitsy holds up her hand. “You’re speaking catawampus now. Y’all talk all the time, despite being in different time zones—and different worlds for that matter. Plus, he’s the one that asked you to prom in another state.”

I spot Bubby and Hands walking into the gym. They both rented tuxes for the night, and I can’t remember Bubby ever looking this dapper.

I guess you can take the boy off the turf.

Kitsy acts as if I’m doing her a big favor coming to Broken Spoke for their prom, but I wanted to.

No, I needed to.

Bubby is the one guy I bookmarked. I’ve always thought I’d come back to him. And now, I think it’s finally time.

If he’ll have me.

8.05 p.m., Le Cirque, 151 East Fifty-Eighth Street, New York City.

THE HOST, DRESSED SHARPLY IN a black suit, pulls out my chair. I sit down delicately and place a cloth napkin on my lap.

“We’re in the main room! This is where everyone wants to sit,” I whisper when he is out of earshot. “Look up!”

Benson stares at the twenty-foot ceiling, which is elaborately draped to resemble a circus’s big top.

Le Cirque, a classic and beloved Manhattan restaurant, is subtly designed to evoke the circus. In addition to its fabulous ceiling, there are monkey statues placed throughout the room, and even the china features circus motifs.

This is exactly how I imagined our romantic dinner when I made the reservation nearly two months ago . . . except I didn’t foresee running into Bubby five minutes beforehand.

I should’ve requested no ex-boyfriend collisions, just like I specifically asked for this table. My palms have only now stopped sweating.

Be in the moment, I remind myself. I reach across the table and squeeze Benson’s hand as I take in the glamour, because I know Ithaca won’t have any place like this.

“I love this restaurant!” I proclaim.

And I do. Le Cirque has been my favoritest since my parents first brought me here for my thirteenth birthday. All of the waiters wear white coats and black tuxedo pants and they essentially stalk you throughout the meal to make sure everything goes well.

Benson starts to laugh when he looks at the menu.

“What?”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit cheesy that a restaurant this expensive is supposed to look like a carnival?”

“Circus,” I correct him, rolling my eyes. “And it’s my chosen restaurant because tonight’s my celebration,” I say.

Benson shrugs. “I wish the circus theme continued onto the menu. I could go for a hot dog and cotton candy, but if you like it, so do I.”

I hold the menu up to my face. “You don’t have to pretend to like something just because I do,” I mutter.

When I was with Bubby, he challenged me on everything, and always called me on my BS. Benson can be so agreeable, which gets tired faster than the newest trend. You think you like it, but by the time you have it, you’re over it.

I should’ve made the reservation for three, I scold myself. I’ve obviously invited Bubby to the table.

Benson pulls down my menu. “Corrinne, can we get to the fun part already? You’ve been Kristen-Stewart-cold since Starbucks. Seriously. She’s going to sue you for stealing her scowl. She trademarked it. I read about it in your Us Weekly.”

I laugh and Benson leans forward and whispers. “You can tell me. Are you secretly in love with a vampire?”

I smile at him and then at the waiter, who’s refilling my water glass for the third time.

“Well, I do love nighttime,” I laugh. “But Benson, right now, I’m only in love with the moment, so don’t worry about any vampires sucking my attention away.”

Maybe just an old boyfriend, I add silently.

I reach across the table and cover Benson’s hand with my own. “And you’re right,” I say. “I know it’s time to have fun . . . but I keep feeling all this pressure to have this meaningful night. . . .”

“But it’s hard to do when we’re breaking up tomorrow?” Benson suggests. “Hold that very thought.” He waves over the sommelier and selects a wine.

“Extremely nice selection,” the sommelier says.

“We’re celebrating,” Benson says.

The sommelier takes the wine list. “To a wonderful future for the two of you?”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Benson says, and winks.

This. Is. Not. Happening, I think. Tonight is about goodbye. What is Benson implying?

“What did you mean by that?” I ask once the sommelier has left.

“I want to talk to you about this whole expiration date thing. Why does tonight have to be the end of us?”

I point to the menu. “I’m going to get the salmon.”

“Corrinne?” Benson asks.

“And the baked Alaska for dessert,” I say. “It’s basically flambéed sugar, but I’m okay with that for one night. Even celebrities have cheat days.”

Benson plucks my menu out of my hands and looks at me. “Corrinne, stop. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t want to break up. Or, that I’m okay with extending this whole expiration date thing, if you are. Our relationship isn’t a bomb. We don’t need to detonate it.”

I sit and look at him—I’m as frozen as an ice sculpture.

Benson continues. “I’m not going off to war, Corrinne, I’m going to Malibu.” He shrugs. “I’m sure that come your first bitter-cold February in Ithaca, you’ll be more than happy to come visit me.”

I feel as if I’m about to have my second anxiety attack in less than an hour. I thought I wanted this night to last forever, but right now, I’m wishing it were already over.

“Let’s place our order, and then we’ll talk about this,” I say as I see the headwaiter approaching. “We don’t want to be late to the concert.”

Benson rolls his eyes at me. “Fine,” he says.

How do you tell someone you’re ready for goodbye?

After the waiter’s come and gone, I take a deep yoga breath. Benson’s plea to stay together was so not on the program. Normally, I’d be flattered by something like this, but there isn’t time for that tonight.

But I can handle this—even if everything keeps going off the grid.

“Benson, everyone says it’s pointless to try to keep a high school relationship going once you start college. It’s like wrestling with The Inevitable. You always lose,” I say. “Tonight, we’re focusing on the now, and tomorrow, we need to start focusing on our new futures.”

Since I didn’t want to go all cliché on him and do the whole “It’s me, not you” thing, I decided to blame college, which is partially the reason for the breakup.

Tactics and positioning are extremely important—both in business and in breakups. You don’t need a Harvard MBA to figure that one out.

Benson tears a piece of bread into two. “Okay,” he says. “I thought that maybe the whole reason you’ve been so uptight about tonight is that . . . maybe you’re upset about us ending.”

Or I was trying to distract myself, I say, but only to myself.

Benson continues. “I thought you might be trying to tell me something, but I guess I was wrong. Not a big deal.” Benson makes a sweeping motion with his hand. “On with the Corrinne Corcoran Suite. What should I say or do next? Is it time for the waltz?”

I butter my bread three times. “I’m sorry, Benson,” I say, looking up at him.

One of my goals for this year is to learn how to apologize. But is it really my fault that I’m so indispensable?

Or at least I am to some people.

Benson rips another piece of bread into two and crumbs fly everywhere.

“Whatever,” he says. “If you had been up for it, I would’ve tried, too. But now I’ll have to just throw myself on beach volleyball players and wannabe models. You’ll have your horse. It’s all good.”

I laugh and pretend that I don’t see that Benson’s hurt.

When the appetizers arrive, I push my mozzarella around on the plate. I had told myself I would eat everything tonight and not care about the calorie, gluten, or glycemic index, but now I’ve lost my appetite.

Even Le Cirque’s food can’t rouse it, and I can tell that Benson is as miserable as I am.

“Benson,” I say after the waiter’s cleared my salmon. “Why don’t you go see your roommate, George, instead of coming to the concert? We can meet back up later.”

Benson folds his napkin and places it on the table.

“I don’t want to hold you back from getting to know who will probably become some pretty important people in your life.”

Maybe that’s part of goodbye. Letting people find their new people. Maybe even Corrinne Corcoran can be flexible.

A waiter comes and switches our tablecloth since Benson dripped steak sauce on it. Normally, I love the attentive service, but right now it makes me feel claustrophobic.

Benson finishes his wine and waves his credit card at the waiter.

“Corrinne is changing the schedule?” He covers his mouth in mock surprise. “I thought that would take clearance from the president. You seemed so set on everything.”

The waiter hurries over and takes Benson’s credit card. He looks surprised at Benson’s impatience. A meal in Le Cirque’s main dining room is not something people—even New Yorkers—usually rush.

“Benson, I thought I knew what would make tonight perfect,” I say. “But maybe I was wrong. I’ll have fun with the girls at the concert, and we’ll reconvene at the Jane Hotel for our goodbye.”

Benson quickly signs the bill the waiter has set down in front of him. “You’re obsessed with goodbye.”

“I know,” I concede.

He stands up.

“What about dessert? I already put an order in for the baked Alaska,” I say.

“You’re a big girl,” Benson replies. “It’s about time you get used to being on your own. I’ll probably see you later at the Jane, Corrinne.”

He pushes back his chair and stands up. “I thought this goodbye deal was about all of us, but I realize now it’s only about you.”

And I realize he’s partially right.

But tonight’s not about just me—and it’s not about remembering. It’s about Bubby, and it’s about trying to forget.

I watch Benson go. I would stop him, but I don’t have anything else to say. Although I haven’t uttered it out loud—despite the prodding from Kitsy and Waverly—I know I only started dating him because of what happened at Broken Spoke’s prom.

While I care that I hurt Benson’s feelings, I realize that our goodbye is not what tonight’s about.

It’s about the one with Bubby.

The one I didn’t have.

The rest of this has just been an opera to distract me.

But what am I going to do about it?

10:32 p.m. Near Terminal 5, 610 West Fifty-Sixth Street, NYC.

AS I LEAN FORWARD TO hand cash to the taxi driver, I look up and notice the Empire State Building is lit up in purple.

My driver turns around and hands me change through the opening in the partition. “It’s lit up for Purple Hearts,” he says, catching my stare. “Those wounded in war.” He points to his phone. “I check the app every night.”

The colors of the Empire State Building change frequently in honor of different causes. Rainbow colors for Pride Week, pink for Breast Cancer Week, and so on. Tripp would say I’m being narcissistic for trying to make a patriotic and noble cause about me, but I must say wounded hearts seem fitting for tonight.

“Have a good night,” the taxi driver calls out as I shut the door behind me.

I try not to think about how my night might not turn out as perfectly as I’d hoped.

If I had only stuck to the schedule and the script.

If only I hadn’t run into Bubby.

If only. Then, I could’ve wrapped up my goodbye with a neat bow. And I could’ve headed off to Cornell in the morning with the memory of a perfectly executed farewell. Just like I had planned.

But now I’ve messed it all up. However, Dear Waverly says that onward is the only efficient direction out of ruins, so I keep on moving.

I check out the long line of people snaking around the building. Then I spot the VIP line and make my way over. Rider, a kid I met—okay, crushed on—in Broken Spoke, dropped out of school and came to Manhattan to pursue a music career. While the rest of us were learning foreign languages and studying for the SATs, he’s been climbing the iTunes charts.

“Hi,” I say to the bouncer, trying to muster some energy. “Rider put a ticket on will-call for me. It’s Corrinne Corcoran.”

The bouncer consults his list.

“And Benson Harris?”

I hold out my arm and the bouncer puts on a wristband. “He couldn’t make it,” I say.

I open the door and try to leave my guilty feelings outside. Hopefully, Waverly and Vladlena will show up soon. I’m going to have plenty of alone time, starting tomorrow. I don’t want it to start before it needs to.

But what will I tell them about Benson? Especially after I had such a reality-show-worthy fit over everything going exactly the way I had planned it.

When I walk into Terminal Five, I take in the two stories, and the open space for the crowd that’s nearly the size of a football field. Hipster Hat Trick—Rider’s band—has been on the road all summer, and they’re playing the last show of their tour here tonight. The floors are cement and the whole place is a bit grittier than I had imagined for the night, but New Yorkers—by nature—can handle a little dirt.

I find my way to a horseshoe-shaped bar. Another band—Here We Are—is finishing up their set.

I order myself a flute of champagne. At least my drink can be celebratory.

Why did Bubby try to pity-coffee-date me, especially after what happened at prom and not telling me about living in New York this summer?

Corrinne Corcoran doesn’t need anyone’s pity. Pity isn’t on tonight’s blackboard. Tonight’s about partying, not pitying.

I lean with my back against the bar and try to block my own thoughts out with the music. I check my iPhone again. Shockingly, I’m early—courtesy of my dinner being cut short—so the girls won’t be here for a while.

For the second time tonight, I surprise myself by wishing the night would speed up rather than slow down.

As I turn around, I spot Rider sauntering in from a side door. I instantly remember why I liked him. With his shaggy brown hair and perfect facial symmetry, he’s always had the look for stardom, which I imagine is seven-eighths the reason for his success. His music isn’t exactly on par with Mozart—or Justin Bieber.

“Rider!” I squeal, waving him over and giving him a hug.

“I was hoping to run into you before my set,” he says. He looks around. “I thought you were bringing friends.”

“They’re coming later,” I answer.

“Always the heartbreaker, Corrinne.” He winks at me. “Walk with me? I need to talk to the bouncer.”

I grab my drink off the bar. “Don’t you have people to do that for you?”

“I’m not a Rock God—or Monster—yet,” Rider says.

Everyone at the bar is giving us stares, but no one says anything. New Yorkers, by rule, try to play it cool when they see someone they recognize.

“Are you excited about college?” Rider asks me as we make our way back to the entrance.

“Ambivalent,” I admit. “It’s hard to say goodbye. I thought I had it all figured out, but I realize now you never get to all the loose threads.”

Rider and I stand near the coat check. “I wish I had done a better goodbye when I left Spoke. I’ve only been back there once in the last year, and I actually miss it, especially when I’m on the road.”

He leans in close. “I’ll—of course—publicly deny that, especially after I ran out of that town like it was on fire. But I’d bet you understand the sentiment, being a city girl who did a stint in the place.”

“I get it,” I say, following Rider outside. “The Spoke is special. You realize that even more when you’ve seen other places.”

And it is. As much as New York is my home, Broken Spoke is where I did a lot of my growing up.

Rider pats the bouncer on the back. “Hey man, can you put my friend Bubby on the list?”

I freeze.

“Does he have a last name?” the bouncer asks. He pauses and waves his hand. “Forget it actually. The odds of two Bubbys?”

“Thanks,” Rider says.

Wait—Bubby?

The odds of two Bubbys in one city, even one as big as New York?

Slim.

The odds of two Bubby run-ins in one night?

About the same odds of winning a Powerball, except without the hundred million dollar payout.

I follow Rider back inside.

“Have you seen a lot of Bubby in the city?” he asks me. “I know you two are like ancient history, but I figured y’all got together at least a few times while you both were here.”

I gulp. “Uh—I saw him once,” I answer. “I didn’t realize he was coming tonight, since you guys were never the best of friends.”

In fact, Rider and Bubby hated each other back in the Spoke. It never even crossed my mind he’d also be here tonight.

I start to wonder if it’s possible to avoid Bubby all night in this place. It is pretty big.

As I’m thinking this, the door opens—and of course—it’s Bubby who walks in.

Bubby’s wearing khakis and an untucked striped button-down, which is very un-Texas of him. And I’ll admit it looks good, although I even once thought Bubby did cowboy boots well.

He and Rider do some guy-high-five-slap-the-back-type of thing.

Then Rider turns to Bubby. “I was about to tell Corrinne that even though we were never friends exactly, we’re still from the same place and ought to look out for each other, especially in the big, bad city.”

Bubby nods.

“Good to see you, man. So glad you texted me about coming tonight,” Rider says. “It’ll be nice to have a few familiar faces in the crowd.” He points at the stage. “Funny how in Broken Spoke, you were the one everyone was cheering for on the football field . . . and now it’s me getting the fandom.” He pauses. “And the girls. And the money.”

Bubby laughs and I can’t help it, but I start laughing, too.

Rider can be a clueless jerk, and I remember now why it didn’t work out.

From the main room, we hear someone shout, “Thanks so much. Please check out Here We Are’s music on iTunes and like us on Facebook.”

“That’s my cue,” Rider says. “I have to go warm up. If I don’t see y’all after, good luck with the college thing. Nice part about being in a band is there are no tests or grades, only performances and hot chicks.”

I give Rider a quick hug, and then all of the sudden, I’m standing alone with Bubby. For the second time tonight. Both unscheduled events.

“So here we are again,” Bubby says, laughing at his own joke. “What are the chances?” He looks around. “Hey, do you want to grab a drink? Where’s your date?”

I take a few steps. “He’s meeting up with some new friends,” I say over my shoulder. “I’m waiting on my girls, but I guess I have a few minutes.”

Dear Waverly would tell me that pretending is equivalent to being. Even if I’m flaming out internally, I can act otherwise externally.

We make our way back to the bar, where Bubby orders a beer. “Do you want anything, Corrinne?” he asks.

I hold up my glass. “I’m good,” I say, even though I don’t exactly feel it.

“Cheers?” Bubby says, grabbing his beer from the counter and tapping it against mine.

“To what?” I ask.

Ruined plans and disastrous coincidences?

Bubby holds up his beer. “It’s my first night out this summer. I mean—actually out. I just got so involved in the paper that I didn’t really experience New York City.” He looks around at the scene, and he smiles. “But tonight—tonight, I’m cooking on the front burner, as Texans would say.”

“I’m glad you’re having a good night,” I say.

Especially since you keep messing up mine.

I finish my drink. “I would’ve showed you around if you had asked.”

Bubby sets down his beer and taps his fingers on the bar. “We didn’t leave things on the best of terms. I didn’t even know if you’d want to see me.”

“Who said I do?” I shake my head. “Besides, that all sounds like excuses for not actually wanting to see me.”

He takes a step toward me. “You know that’s not true.”

Dear Waverly would be screaming at me. I’m acting as cool as a Sonic ice cream Blast, but Bubby has always had the power to unravel me like a spool of thread.

I lean in. “Before prom, we were talking all the time,” I say. “While everyone else was so into senior year and the lasts of everything, I was on the phone with you. I don’t know—I guess I thought something was going to happen between the two of us, but then you made it clear that it wasn’t.”

And there—I’ve finally said it.

“You’re such a revisionist,” Bubby says, looking at me with unbelieving eyes. “It’s good thing that you’re not in journalism. You sure do only know how to tell one side of story. There’s nothing fair or balanced about how you see the world.”

My mouth drops open. “So that’s not how it happened?”

I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I spin around.

Vladlena and Waverly are standing right behind me.

Waverly points and whispers loudly to Vladlena, “It’s Bubby. You owe me twenty bucks and a shot, preferably a fruity one.”

I lightly pinch Waverly’s arm. Betting on a friend’s love life is low even for Waverly. And how could she ever have guessed this? She’s an amateur advice columnist, not a psychic.

“Where’s Benson?” Vladlena asks, looking around.

Waverly sticks out her hand toward Bubby. “Remember me?” she says, referring to the time she visited Broken Spoke.

“Who could forget Hurricane Waverly?” he says, taking her hand.

“I’m Dear Waverly now,” she says.

Bubby raises his eyebrows but doesn’t ask. He reaches his hand out to Vladlena.

“So you are the Bubby,” she declares if he were the rock star, not Rider.

I grit my teeth. “Bubby, meet Vladlena.”

They shake hands.

Then Vladlena leans toward me. “He looks different than the photos, even cuter.”

I give Vladlena a look that could scare the toughest Real Housewife. Even the New Jersey table-flipping ones.

“I’m in my New York clothes tonight,” Bubby says, obviously having overheard her. “But I might need to start wearing cowboy boots here. I’ve had four women in heels step on my feet in the last month. It hurt more than a horse’s hoof.” He points toward Vladlena’s shoes. “Those things are sharp.”

“I had a photo of everyone from the Spoke’s rodeo in my dorm room,” I explain to Bubby. “That’s how she knows what you look like.”

I also may have showed Vladlena my Broken Spoke photo album a hundred times.

Vladlena turns to Bubby and me. “We’re going to get drinks,” she declares, grabbing Waverly’s hand.

“Remember What Would Dear Waverly Do!” Waverly calls back at me, as Vladlena drags her to another bar.

“So . . .” Bubby says.

I fiddle with my glass. “We were talking about prom. But, Bubby. That was months ago. And tonight’s my last night in New York.”

Goodbyes aren’t about lingering over what could’ve happened, I remind myself. Goodbyes are about saying goodbye to what actually did.

To the people who stuck around—not the ones who didn’t.

Maybe the only way for this night to improve is to get back on schedule. I worked hard on reconstructing my life post-prom, and I’m not going to let Bubby’s presence dismantle that. And I’m also not going to let him huff and puff and blow my night over, like some big bad wolf from a fairy tale.

“I get it,” Bubby says, gesturing in the direction of Vladlena and Waverly. “You want to spend time with your friends.”

Bubby holds his beer up to cheek; he’s starting to grow the smallest amount of stubble.

It looks good on him.

He shrugs. “Go!” he says. “We’ll run into each other again someday.”

I give Bubby a side hug. “You know—it was good to see you,” I manage to say.

I decide to end this with bit of class. And maybe we will run into each other again, and maybe that time, it’ll hurt a little less.

Maybe next time, I won’t feel this way at all.

Bubby nods. “It was great to see you, too, Corrinne.”

“Enjoy the show,” I say, motioning to the stage. “Hope you have a magical night in my city. She is going to be my hardest goodbye.”

And that’s a lie. Because I know now that it’s actually this one.

I wave and move my way toward the girls, standing at the bar across the room.

I flag down the bartender. “Champagne, please.”

“Where’s Bubby?” asks Waverly.

“Where’s Benson?” asks Vladlena.

“Benson is going to meet up with us later,” I answer, ignoring Waverly’s question altogether.

And I know that Benson will show. Even if he was upset over me not wanting to stay together, I know he wouldn’t ever leave without a true goodbye.

Unlike some people.

“And Bubby?” Waverly prods.

I shake my head. “Oh, that,” I say in a tone reserved for bumping into my old math teacher rather than an ex-boyfriend. “We just ran into each other by accident. Twice, actually. But tonight’s not about him. He doesn’t get to ride in like a cowboy and take center ring. We’re in New York, not Tejas.”

“Dear Waverly would say accidents and fate resemble each other.”

I smile. “Dear Waverly needs to take some time off and enjoy the night.”

“Okay. It’s your night,” Waverly says. “We’re just living in it.”

I put my arm around her waist. “That’s right. My night.” I point toward the stage, where Rider and his bandmates are tuning their instruments. “And I’m thinking it’s about time that we make our way into the crowd and dance. Goodbyes don’t have to be all sad. Even on the sinking Titanic, the band still played on.”

And without looking back, I make my way to the front of the stage with Waverly and Vladlena.

Rider takes the microphone, and Tad—a guy Kitsy hung out with when she lived in New York one summer—starts strumming his guitar.

“This is a new song,” Rider says. “We wrote it while on our tour. Hope you all like it. We’re calling it ‘Of Mice and Men.’”

I sigh. Rider’s past songwriting attempts have made me wonder if he should’ve stayed in school. There are legitimate reasons why most rock stars don’t write their own music. One of the most valid ones is that many rock stars don’t have high school diplomas.

“An old man once wrote . . .” Rider sings.

Waverly groans and whispers, “Fame is baffling.”

“An old man once wrote, of all the words of mice and men, the saddest were, what might have been,” Rider sings again, then hums.

Tad leans forward and joins in. “What might have been . . .” the guys echo again and again. “Of all the wonders of the world, the one I want to solve is what might have been.”

“Is this serious?” Waverly asks me under her breath.

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” I admit. “It’s better than the song he wrote about my Levi jeans.”

I actually think this song’s pretty true. It is the-what-might-have-beens that keep you up at night.

Rider brushes his hair out of his face and I hear girls in the audience audibly gasp.

“And I’ve sailed seven seas, but none of them took me to the port of what might’ve been. So I go back to that night—again and again—and I wonder what might’ve been. . . .”

Tad joins back in. “What might’ve been. What might’ve been . . .”

I turn to Waverly and Vladlena. “I’ll be right back,” I say, and dart through the crowd.

I run back to the bar where Bubby had just been standing, but he’s gone now.

The universe keeps telling me it isn’t right. I need to start listening.

I feel my phone vibrate in my purse and I pull it out. I refuse to get excited.

Two messages.

Kitsy: How’s your night? Anything unexpected happen?

Benson: See u at the Jane. I promise I’ll be fun. Sorry I tried to steamroll the night. Goodbyes make you do crazy things.

I sigh and look around one last time before heading back into the crowd toward my friends.

When I reach the front, Waverly raises her eyebrows. “Care to tell us anything?”

“I went to the bathroom,” I lie, and turn my attention back to the stage.

Rider leans down and reaches out for a girl’s hand in the crowd.

“Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are what might have been,” he sings to her.

Tad plays the final chords, and thankfully the song ends.

I don’t want to think about the what-might-have-beens anymore.

I put my arms around Waverly and Vladlena. “I’m going to miss you girls,” I say.

And it’s true. Even if I keep thinking of something else—someone else.

Namely, the might-have-been.

April. Broken Spoke High Prom, Broken Spoke, Texas.

“Last song!” the DJ announces over the loudspeaker. “Grab that someone special. In ten years, you’ll be looking back to this and wonder . . .” He pauses. “You’ll be wondering what was I thinking with my hair.” Then he laughs at his own joke. DJs are a special breed. Note to self: my wedding must have a band.

Bubby takes my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor. We missed the only other slow song when I was redoing my hair with Kitsy in the bathroom.

Prom at Kent was last weekend. It was held in the Museum of Natural History in Manhattan. I went with a decent guy—Benson. But nothing—not the guy, not the band, not even dancing under dinosaur bones—felt as special as the way it does when Bubby wraps his hands around my waist.

“Secret,” I whisper into Bubby’s ear. “I’m a terrible dancer. I was almost kicked out of cotillion because my partner’s tooth got knocked out when I accidently tripped him during the foxtrot.”

Even though I’m coordinated on a horse, I’m a disaster on a dance floor.

Bubby purposefully steps on my foot. “We can be terrible together. And I promise—from now on—to wear a mouth guard whenever we dance.”

The words “from now on” send shivers up my bare back.

Kitsy and Hands two-step over toward us.

“Looking good, y’all. See, you can take the girl out of the city,” Hands jokes.

When they’ve scooted away, Bubby leans in. “They’re still saying they are just friends.”

We laugh.

Even though Kitsy and Hands are no longer officially dating, they’re always together. I guess they’re connected by something more than a label.

“So tell me. Are you going to Baylor? It’s going to be May soon. You have to decide.”

I think I’m more curious about Bubby’s college choice than my own, and Baylor’s football coach has been calling him since last fall.

“I told you that I’m still not committed,” he says. He gives me a twirl and pulls me back in. “I always thought I’d leave Texas for college. I’ve never been to another state, and I think it’s time. So I’m still waiting on a few more places to let me know.”

“Where?” I ask Bubby, moving in and closing the small gap between us. “Tell me.”

I’ve asked him a hundred times what schools he applied to, but he won’t say. He says there’s no point counting chickens until the eggs hatch.

“You’ll find out soon,” he says.

I don’t say it, but I hope it’s somewhere close to Cornell. I know it’s crazy to think we could date long-distance in college. But I want to. Even if that goes against everyone’s advice about college and being free when you’re young.

If you know you want something, why shouldn’t you go after it? This is America, after all.

I tighten my grip around Bubby’s neck. “Hey, Bubby, before the field, can we talk?”

I want to know if he’s on the same page. I want to see if he’s willing to try this, too.

Bubby stops dancing.

“Corrinne, I have to tell you something. I can’t go to the field.” He pauses. “I didn’t want to ruin the night by telling you before prom. But I found out last night that I got a really important interview in Dallas. But it’s at nine a.m. Tomorrow. I’ll have to leave the Spoke before the crack of dawn.”

I laugh and nudge Bubby in the ribs. “Very funny joke,” I say. “I came two thousand miles to hang out, and there’s an after-party in a field, so we’re going to go. I even have toilet paper in my purse.”

Besides, I think, there’s something I have to talk to you about.

“You can still go with Kitsy,” Bubby says. “But I can’t go, Corrinne. This interview is too huge.”

I let go of Bubby’s neck. “Are you serial?” I ask. “This is it? I fly out tomorrow afternoon.”

Bubby shrugs. “For this weekend, it is. It’s not like this is goodbye forever.”

I take a step back and nearly bump into another couple.

Bubby reaches out his hand to pull me back in.

I shake my head.

“Corrinne, it’s an interview for a summer internship at a newspaper. A big paper. I can’t show up in a grass-stained tux, with bags under my eyes. You know how much this means to me.”

“I guess I do now,” I say.

I take off for the bathroom and I don’t turn back.

And I don’t say goodbye.

1:35 a.m. The Jane Hotel, 113 Jane Street, NYC.

VLADLENA, WAVERLY, AND I SPILL out of a taxi and onto the front steps of the Jane Hotel.

It’s an old brick building near the West Side Highway, and its bar—the Jane Ballroom—is my favorite place to dance in the city. Fortunately, their music will be a bit easier to move to than Hipster Hat Trick, which would be a great soundtrack for doomsdayers.

I point at the bouncer standing on the stairs and holding a clipboard.

“Let’s wait for Benson out here,” I say. “It’s always easier to get in as a guy if you’re with some girls.”

I’m actually happy Benson is coming. I want a better ending than the one we had at Le Cirque.

I want to part ways after we walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, like I had planned it. I’m the director of this night, and I need to remember that. I’m in control of my own cinematic ending.

We move past a group of smokers and huddle together near the end of the street.

“Alright, Missy,” Waverly says, giving me a stare-down. “Now that we complied with your request and danced our booties off with you at the concert, you need to let us know what’s going on with this Benson-Bubby-Corrinne love triangle.”

Vladlena nods. “It wasn’t on the schedule. I double-checked.”

I laugh. I’m never again writing another schedule, because I’ll never hear the last of this one.

It’s not like they actually pan out. They’re apparently as hard to stick to as a diet. Something always pops up. With diets, it’s Magnolia cupcakes, and with my schedules, it’s apparently Bubby.

I turn to Waverly. “First of all, it’s not a love triangle,” I say. “None of us are in love—so if it’s anything—it’s a straight line.”

“If it’s nothing, why did you make us ditch Bubby?” Waverly asks me. Sometimes, champagne makes her into a Bold Bettina.

“We didn’t ditch him,” I say. “I ran into him, I said hi, and that’s the end of story.”

I don’t mention the part where I went chasing after him as if he were Cinderella and I were the prince. That part I won’t ever mention to anyone, especially since I never found him.

And it was a mistake to look for him in the first place. Corrinne Corcoran doesn’t chase boys, not figuratively and not literally. I’ll deny doing that until I die.

I take off my high heel—which is killing me—and I balance on one foot.

Waverly lends me her arm to balance. “You know that you hold a grudge better than anyone I know,” she says. “And I’d bet my blog that wasn’t the last chapter with you two.”

“Don’t be betting your blog on anything, and I’m not holding a grudge. I’m over Bubby leaving me in Broken Spoke.” I sigh. “It was months ago. I’m living in the now.”

Vladlena shakes her head. “I still don’t think he abandoned you. He had an interview for the New York Times. Sometimes, people have to make tough decisions.”

“Vladlena, he could’ve told me what paper it was at the time, which he didn’t. And he didn’t, because he clearly didn’t want me to know that we might share a city for the summer. You’re never too young to have priorities, and Bubby showed his,” I say. I take a deep breath. “For our whole lives, people will choose their careers over love. That’s what New Yorkers do. But isn’t eighteen a bit young to start?”

Waverly points to a taxi, where Benson and two other guys are getting out. “Just remember the fact that you’re the one who stopped returning Bubby’s phone calls after prom.”

That part is true. But what was there left to say? And how has tonight become not about the moment, but about what happened four months ago?

I smile big and wave at Benson and the other guys.

“Bubby said it all at prom by leaving me,” I say again before I turn and give the girls a stern look. “Let’s drop this and get back on cue. Everyone get to their spots because I see some cute guys—including my still-boyfriend Benson—heading our way.”

Waverly lets go of my arm and whips her head back, which is her signature trick for creating volume.

“We only want you to be happy, Corrinne. But if you want us to let it go, we will. It’s your goodbye.”

“So you’re George?” I ask, shaking hands with a guy who looks and dresses like a blond Kennedy.

“Yup,” he says. “And thanks for letting us crash your night, Corrinne. Benson told us how you planned out this whole evening, but then how you let him come meet us anyway. You must be a total sweetheart.”

Benson puts his arm around my waist. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, pulling me close. “But she’s been a good girlfriend. I’m going to miss her.”

George gives me a nod. “And that whole expiration thing is wicked cool. All relationships should come with those, the way beer does.”

I smile at Benson, and he smiles back. I can tell that he’s not mad anymore. And really—who could blame him for wanting to stay together with me?

Some people have cultured taste.

Once the bouncer has checked all our (fake) IDs, he unclips the velvet rope and lets us in.

The bar is a two-story room. It’s cluttered with mismatched furniture, plants, and small tables. There’s also an enormous disco ball hanging from the celling. With all the formal furniture, you wouldn’t think the ball would work, but somehow—probably because it’s New York—it fits.

“There’s a table near the fireplace that’s open,” Vladlena says. She maneuvers over and tosses her purse onto a purple velvet couch. “It’s ours now. I’ve marked it.”

One of George’s friends—Courtland—plops down on the couch and pulls Vladlena next to him. “You’re mine now. I’ve marked you.”

Everyone laughs and Vladlena laughs and scoots over toward him.

Maybe getting a bit off the plan isn’t that bad.

Loosen the reins, I think. Whenever I’m having trouble with Sweetbread, I usually tense up first, when what I actually I need to do is loosen the reins.

That’s what I’m going to do tonight, starting now. Instead of trying to control everything, I’m going to make sure my friends—and Benson—have fun.

And that will be enough to distract me.

Waverly stands on a leopard ottoman, which is completely allowed here, and starts to dance. When she reaches for my hand, I let her pull me up. I’m surprised neither of our heels puncture the fabric. We have to lean on each other, so we don’t fall down. But we dance anyway. I’m certain we look ridiculous, but maybe that’s what’s great about old friends—you don’t have to worry about that. You’re not trying to make an impression; you’re only trying to make a memory.

After a few songs, Benson comes over and pulls us down.

“Champagne time!” he says.

A cocktail waitress comes over and sets two buckets of Dom down on the table. She pours everyone out a glass, and Benson signs the tab.

“Thanks,” I say to him, and kiss him on the check.

Kissing him on the lips would feel weird now. It’s like we’ve somehow already crossed the line and are now only friends, even though we haven’t officially expired yet.

Benson kisses my cheek in return. “I have a toast,” Benson says loudly over the music.

George, Courtland, Vladlena, Waverly, and I hold up our glasses in anticipation.

“While I will have many, many more girlfriends,” he says, “I will never forget Corrinne Corcoran, because she’s an original. And I won’t forget tonight, for that matter, either—because it only happened once.” He clinks my glass with his. “Thanks to Corrinne for reminding us that time is fleeting, especially for the young and the beautiful. We should grab the moment.”

I must say that for a placeholder, Benson’s been a pretty perfect boyfriend. Maybe I should go into casting.

George raises his glass. “Cheers to that,” he says. “And cheers to room three-fifteen being the future official party room at Pepperdine.”

We all toast again. Everyone is smiling. Champagne is flowing. Music is bumping. This is how I thought tonight would be—minus George and Courtland. But the attention is making Vladlena and Waverly happy, so it’s all good.

Vladlena leans in. “We all have to promise to visit each other. Not right away—but once everyone settles in.”

“You can visit me anytime at Davidson College,” Courtland says, and winks at Vladlena.

Waverly coughs. “Dear Waverly thinks you need to work on being subtle,” she says, scolding him with her eyes.

She turns toward Vladlena and me. “I’m not sure I’ll be venturing to Ithaca or Canada, but we could meet up for a girls weekend in Miami? I’m personally still trying to recover from my community service trip to Broken Spoke.”

And just as I was in the moment—and the night was almost how I imagined it would be—the words Broken Spoke dig into me.

Vladlena glares at Waverly.

“Dance time!” Vladlena cries. She kicks off her heels and stands on the couch. She throws one arm in the air and pulls me up with the other.

I try to stay in the moment, but then suddenly, I slip away.

April. Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport.

“American Airlines, boarding all zones for flight ninety-eight to LaGuardia.”

I look down at the text on my phone.

Bubby: I know you have your flight. But we’re both in Dallas. Can you get the next one? I’m circling the airport in my truck. I don’t want last night to be goodbye.

I’ve been staring at the text for sixteen minutes, trying to think of how to reply.

I look back toward the baggage claim signs.

My phone buzzes again.

Bubby: Corrinne, please. I have news.

“Ma’am,” the airline employee calls out to me. “Are you on this flight?”

I look at my phone, then look at my ticket.

“I’m on this flight,” I say, hurrying over to the counter.

When I’m sitting on the plane—only after the door is locked and we’re about to pull back from the gate—I type.

Me: Sorry, the flight boarded. Guess that was goodbye.

Around 2 a.m. The Jane Hotel, 116 Jane Street, NYC.

“IT’S YOUR FAVORITE SONG!” WAVERLY says, tugging at my arm and pulling me out of my thoughts. “How fitting. I promise that whenever I hear this song from now on, I’ll think of you.”

“Thanks, Waverly,” I yell over the music. I jump down from the couch and sit down on an ottoman with her.

“Why aren’t you dancing to it, then?” she asks. She points around to the packed bar and to Vladlena and Benson, who look happier together than they have all night. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry,” I say.

Waverly shrugs. “You should’ve asked Dear Waverly. I could’ve told you that.”

She squeezes me. “You’re going to love college. And you’re going to find people who love you as much as I do.” She shakes her head. “I know that sounds impossible. But, it’s true. Hey, you even found your people in that boondock Texas town.”

She nods toward Benson. “You know that you’re totally lovable, Corrinne, especially for someone so damn unlikable.”

“Thanks,” I say, nudging her in the ribs. “The same is true about you, too. Maybe that’s why we’re best friends.”

Which is probably true. I’ve always believed you can love someone as a friend without actually liking them as a human being.

Waverly taps at her watch. She’s one of the few people under seventy who still wears one regularly. (“What’s sexy about checking your phone?” she says. “iPhones are not sexy, classic, or timeless. But Rolexes are.”)

She leans over. “As I’m sure you know, there are only a few hours left in the night. Make them count.”

I look around. “I thought I was the one keeping time.”

I lean back against a coffee table. “It’s harder to be in the moment than I thought it would be. Have you ever bookmarked something, thinking that you’d go back to it?”

Waverly laughs. “What’s a bookmark? Didn’t the tablet kill those like video killed the radio stars?”

I stick my bottom lip out. “Be serious. Have you ever left something without knowing that it was going to be it for good?”

“I think that’s called growing up. Sometimes you’re too late, and you lose something.” She swivels around and faces me. “But sometimes you’re not.” She taps on the glass face of her watch. “You never know unless you try.”

“I’m done with the might-have-beens,” I say. “I think that’s part of growing up too.”

I don’t need my next timer to go off because I know that it’s after four in the morning when all the lights come on and the bouncers start shooing everyone toward the front doors.

Minus the streetlamps, it’s still mostly dark when our group stumbles outside.

Waverly, Courtland, George, and Vladlena are doing the cancan and debating where to get late-night pizza.

“Rivoli is still open,” Waverly says, pointing toward Christopher Street. She grabs my hands with hers. “Will you come with, Corrinne? I know it’s not on the books, but I’m not ready to leave you yet.”

I shake my head. “Goodbyes don’t wait you for to be ready, and I want to say them here. I want this to be my last memory until we see other again.”

I nod toward Benson. “And we still have our Brooklyn Bridge goodbye kiss to cross off the list.”

“It was nice to meet you,” I say, turning to George and Courtland.

Then I sandwich Vladlena and Waverly into a tight hug. “Thank you for tonight,” I say. Softly, I add, “It only turned out perfect because of you two. You both kept me from hitting the panic button when everything went south. I love you girls.”

Waverly starts to cry. “No one is ever going to accept me like you all do. Most people can’t overcome their overwhelming jealousy to get to know me.”

Waverly Dotts, on principle, does not cry.

“I don’t get why we spend time making friends and then we have to leave them,” Vladlena whines. “I don’t want new friends.”

“Me, neither,” I say. “But you know what the Girl Scouts say.” I start to sing the old tune. “‘Make new friends. But keep the old. One is silver and the other’s gold.’” I hold my friends at arm’s distance. “You both are my golden girls.”

Waverly wipes her tears and does her head flip trick. “Thank God I’m golden, because I look dreadful in platinum.” She lowers her voice. “Corrinne, never admit to our Girl Scout days again. For the record, if anyone asks, we were never part of troop forty-two.”

I give Waverly another big hug. There’s something special about growing up with someone since you were little, even if that makes it that much harder to let them go.

“Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” Courtland chants loudly behind us.

“Go!” I say, hugging them tightly again before waving them off.

“Goodbye, my girls,” I shout at them as they skip off with Courtland and George. “Call me. Text me. Chat me. Skype me. This is the electronic age. No excuses for being a stranger,” I yell after them.

Even if everything with Bubby went disastrously, I know I’m still among the fortunate because I have the best girlfriends in the world. And because I’ve gotten to call New York home for the past eighteen years. There’s something to be said for counting your blessings.

Benson and I stand there, watching the girls go until we can’t see them anymore.

Then he takes my hand, and we start to walk.

“Was tonight everything you wanted?” Benson asks as we look for a cab to take us to our final stop. “Does it all feel wrapped up?”

I nod, even though it doesn’t.

“Thanks for playing along with all of this,” I say. “It’s been ceremonial for me. I get now why people have graduations, weddings, and funerals to mark beginnings and endings. There’s something to be said for making a big deal out of it. Goodbyes shouldn’t be ignored.”

Benson holds up his hand for an approaching cab and nods. “I think I get it. And if you don’t say a proper one, you leave everything hanging and you can’t move on.”

There’s more truth to that than he could ever know.

But I can’t make up for the goodbyes I’ve missed. I can only make the most of the ones I still have—like the one with Benson.

We slide into the cab. “Do you know that I’ve never walked over the Brooklyn Bridge?” he says, after letting the driver know that’s where we’re headed.

I shrug. “I actually haven’t, either,” I admit. “You probably think it’s totally cheesy and out of a romantic comedy, but I thought it would be a fitting way to end the night and to say goodbye to New York.” I look out of the window to the nearly deserted streets. “There are very few hours where you feel that New York belongs to only you, and the sunrise is one of them.”

Benson opens his mouth to say something, but then shuts it. He leans his head against the window and rubs at his eyes.

My iPhone buzzes and I let myself wonder—only for a second—who it could be. I pull it out of my purse to check.

Two messages.

Waverly: Don’t you. Don’t you. Don’t you forget about me. Love you, Corrinne.

Kitsy: Couldn’t sleep, and I thought, hey, Corrinne’s up. Call me on your way to Cornell and tell me everything.

I put my iPhone back in my purse, and I snuggle against Benson’s shoulder.

As we start driving across the Brooklyn Bridge, the earliest signs of dawn start to show themselves.

The city goes from twinkling night to waking morning. Shades of pink start to creep into the cracks between the skyscrapers.

I turn around and watch as Manhattan gets smaller and smaller through the taxi’s back window.

Later today, this will happen again. The city—and my past—will get smaller and smaller as I head toward Ithaca, and Cornell—and my future—will get larger and larger until I’m standing right in it.

In Brooklyn, at the corner of Tillary and Adams Streets, we get out of the cab and start walking across the pedestrian bridge toward Manhattan.

Aside from a few ambitious early-morning joggers who pass us every so often, there’s no one else on the footbridge, but morning car traffic whizzes below us.

We walk in silence until Benson takes my hand. “You’ve been my favoritest girlfriend, Corrinne.”

“Thanks,” I say. “We’ve had a lot of fun.”

And it’s true. Even if Benson and I aren’t meant to be forever, it doesn’t mean that we didn’t matter at all.

Rebounds aren’t only important in basketball.

He stops and turns to face me. I feel the traffic rumbling underneath us, and we’re surrounded on all sides by the East River. The sky is now layers of pink and blue, and the skyscrapers look like giant black shadows against the morning sky.

I can’t believe I’ve lived here my whole life without doing this walk.

If Benson and I were in love, this would be the perfect ending to a movie. We’d kiss. Music would play. The credits would roll. Audiences might even cheer.

But we’re not in love.

I look at Benson, and I can tell he knows what I’m about to say.

He nods. “I’ll head back to Brooklyn and catch a cab. This is your goodbye.”

I look toward Manhattan and realize that when I get there, everything’s going to be different.

Because when I make it over the bridge, I’ve crossed over into tomorrow—and to the next part of my life. And I know that I need to start that next phase on my own.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

He waves his hand at me. “It’s light out. You’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” I say. Maybe Benson understood me better than I ever thought he did.

Benson gives me a peck on the cheek before he turns around and heads back to Brooklyn. “Text me that you make it home, Corrinne,” he says over his shoulder. “And like you said, don’t be a stranger.”

“Bye, Benson,” I call out, meeting his eyes one last time.

For the first time, getting off schedule feels exactly right. I should’ve always planned to do this walk alone. After all, it’s my goodbye.

Maybe I didn’t create the perfect schedule after all. Maybe letting it be sometimes is better.

After a while, I start the walk toward Manhattan on my own. I take small steps, mostly because my feet are killing me, but partly because I’m trying to delay the inevitable, of reaching the end of the bridge. Unfortunately, this doesn’t stop the sun from coming up.

I think back on the night.

Maybe there is no art to goodbye.

Maybe it’s not what you wear, where you go, or what you to do that make a perfect goodbye.

Maybe it’s simply the last person you hug. The one you save for very last. The one who sends you off into a big new world.

And I just used mine up on Benson Harris, Mr. Expiration Date.

While he’s a great guy, I messed this night up royally.

I let my pride get in the way of what I really wanted and spent a summer running from my own true feelings. Even though I’ve survived a recession and managed to get into an Ivy League school, I’m still a total idiot.

Once I’ve crossed the bridge, I try to hail a cab, but they’re all off-duty. Finally, I slump onto a nearby bench and watch the traffic pass by.

I need to get back to the apartment soon, but for now, I want to wait one more moment before entering the new day.

Then, I see a tall boy approaching in the distance. He looks about my age and he’s wearing a maroon football jersey. As he gets closer, I realize it’s a Broken Spoke football jersey. Not many schools have Mockingbird mascots.

As the boy gets closer, I realize it’s Bubby. It’s definitely Bubby.

“Bubby?” I call out. I can’t help but smile, although I’m wondering if I’m experiencing a sleep-deprived mirage. Or if I’m dreaming—because I’ve had dreams like this before.

I find myself standing up and starting to walk over to him. Then all of sudden, I’m running.

“I found you,” he says, wiping sweat from forehead. He looks around. “And you’re alone.”

I throw my arms around him for a giant hug.

He’s real. His muscles feel as solid as ever.

“How’d you know?” I ask, trying to read his expression. “How did you know that I would be here?”

He sits down on a bench, and I sit down next to him.

He’s out of breath. “Kitsy,” he answers between gasps. “She forwarded me your itinerary.”

My mouth drops open. “What?”

Bubby leans back. “After I ran into you at Starbucks, I couldn’t stop thinking about you and our goodbye. Or lack of goodbyes. I knew it was your last night, so I called her.”

I playfully whack Bubby. “So you knew I’d be at the concert? That’s why you texted Rider.”

He nods. “I thought you knew that already. But then I realized I wasn’t being fair. Last night wasn’t supposed to be about me, so I left. But then I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d take a walk on the chance you might be here.”

I nudge my purse. “You know I have a cell phone, right? You could’ve just called me. I’m been checking my phone all night, hoping you would.” I shake my head. “You were the whole reason for the schedule, anyway. I sort of became obsessed with goodbyes after we didn’t have one in Broken Spoke.”

And there. I’ve said it.

“I didn’t want it to end that way, either,” Bubby says.

I nod. “I know, but I was mad. I think I still have some growing up to do in that department.”

He leans closer. “Just so you get your facts straight, I was always planning on telling you about New York, Corrinne,” he says. “You’re the whole reason I applied for the internship in the first place. Well, that and it being the New York Times. I thought we could spend the summer together and see if what we had could make it beyond phone calls and prom.”

“If you wanted to be with me, why didn’t you just tell me that?”

Bubby rolls his eyes. “I called you eighteen times the week after prom, Corrinne,” he says. “If I had called you any more, it would’ve been considered stalking in nearly all fifty states.” He waves his hand. “Then, Hands told me he saw you had a boyfriend on Facebook, so I tried to let it go.”

“I did,” I say. I look at the sun, which is slowly climbing its way up the skyscrapers. “But I don’t have one anymore.”

It’s then that I realize more than just Benson and my relationship expired this morning. I’ve also stepped out of the past and into the now.

“I figured I had missed my chance,” Bubby says.

My iPhone timer goes off in my purse.

I’m seriously regretting both the timer and the duck ringtone.

Bubby raises his eyebrows.

“That’s the last alarm. That’s the one that signals the end,” I say.

I stand up, spotting a cab with an on-duty light.

“So are you going?” Bubby asks.

“I should be,” I say. “Maybe our next lives will have better timing. Thanks for finding me, though. I like this ending better than our last one.”

Maybe this is that growing-up feeling that Waverly mentioned. Sometimes, you have to let things go and realize that if you missed your chance, and that was your own fault.

“I’m sorry, Bubby,” I say. “I shouldn’t have blown up at you over the interview and I should’ve answered your calls. Sometimes, for an eighteen-year-old, I act pretty childish.”

Bubby stands up, too. “Hug?” he asks. “I’m sorry this didn’t go differently. Prom. The summer. Last night. But I’m still glad I found you.”

“Me too,” I whisper. “I wonder whoever put the word good with bye. It’s stupid. There’s nothing good about them.”

The cab pulls over to the curb.

When I go in to hug Bubby, he pulls me in tight. I-can-smell-his-cologne tight.

“Hey!” I say. “This doesn’t feel like a goodbye hug.”

I pull away but I don’t let go of Bubby’s arms.

“I have to go,” I say. “My family is waiting. Cornell is waiting.”

I hold up my index finger to the cab, hoping the driver will give us one more minute.

“Quack, quack, quack,” goes my phone again.

I silence the alarm. “I’ve decided I’m not really big on goodbyes after all,” I say. “Bubby, I have to ask. Where are you going to school?”

Bubby smiles out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been meaning to mention that. Last week, I got off the waiting list at Ithaca College.”

I squeal. “Ithaca as in the-college-that-shares-a-town-with-Cornell Ithaca?”

“They have a good journalism program and a decent football team,” he says, shrugging. “And it’s out of state.” He takes my hand. “And it might even save me a goodbye and give us a second chance.”

“So this doesn’t have to be it?” I ask.

“Maybe not,” he says. “I have a week to decide.”

The cab driver honks his horn.

“Give us a minute, buddy!” Bubby hollers.

I think New York must be rubbing off on Bubby. Aggression is sexy on him.

Bubby looks around. “Let’s get breakfast,” he pleads. “I know a Starbucks around here.”

“You’re making me get off schedule,” I say. “Again.” I throw my hands up. “But who cares if I’m a little late? They say being accepted to an Ivy is the hardest part. Nellie can wait.”

I wave off the cab driver.

“Who’s Nellie?” Bubby asks me.

“You’ll find out . . . and we’re not going to Starbucks,” I say. “We’re doing a greasy diner. I’ve been up all night, and I’ve been waiting for this goodbye for months.”

“Sounds perfect,” Bubby says, letting go of my hand. “But hold on a second.”

Bubby reaches into his pockets and pulls out plastic flip-flops. He places them neatly down on the street.

“Kitsy told me you’d be needing these, so I stopped by a CVS.”

I take off my heels and slip into the flip-flops. Heaven.

Kitsy must be my fairy godmother.

And Bubby must be my prince.

And this is my fairy-tale ending. I guess you don’t have to be a princess to get one of those.

I kiss Bubby and then we walk off into the streets of Manhattan, my palace, and into the future.

I nearly forgot that people can feel as much like home as a place can.

And, hey. Maybe not all goodbyes are the end—and that’s what makes them good.