Paper airplanes are a lost art. Try making one. It’s harder than you think.

Gabe is drunk. He can hear Natasha talking to him but he knows she isn’t there. Until you either make her real or exorcise her, you won’t be whole, she says, over and over.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to find Mae, not that he hasn’t thought about her every day forever, not that her name doesn’t surface at moments he can never predict, felling him with the strength of it, the strength of her, even after all this time. He could look her up on the Internet, he knows, but also, he can’t. On the last night he spent in Alex Bay, Mae’s grandmother, Lilly, had made it clear that he should stay away. Forever. And he respects it because he has to. If he had a daughter or granddaughter and a guy like him was sniffing around—well, he would have done the same thing, or worse.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss her, even now. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Natasha is right, yet again. He loved Mae. Probably still does love her, for what it’s worth.

He can remember her so easily, in all her incarnations: first, a little girl with messy curls asking him—him!—if he wants to come over and play; then a young girl with glasses and braces and freckles; then a teenage girl with tawny-brown eyes and a sunshine smile that one day, out of nowhere, makes him see the good in a world he always thought was against him. Then a girl with skin that turns from ivory to pale bronze as the seasons change, like winter giving way to spring giving way to the gold of summer, except where her bathing suit straps go. There: the white lines on her shoulders, cultivated by sunlight and the straps he wants to gently push away, to reveal soft shoulders that sometimes peel after long, hot days. He came to know that skin, all of it. Indelible, the mark that skin left upon him.

He’s staring at the water stains again. This is why Natasha left him. Because she knew that as soon as it was officially over between them he would end up on an epic bender, the highlight of which was thinking about someone he hasn’t seen since he was eighteen.

What a fuck-up he is. Maybe he should go for a walk or something, get out of this apartment, dump the bourbon down the sink, break the vicious cycle—but then his phone rings. He looks at the number, sees the area code, reflexively hits the decline button because it’s an Alex Bay number and how can that even be possible? Can’t be his father, whom he hasn’t spoken to since he left. And it can’t be . . . anyone else. He drinks more bourbon, gets up and starts to pace. But eventually he can’t stop himself from listening to the message.

A throat clear. “Hello, Gabriel, it’s George Summers calling . . .”

Would Gabe have recognized his voice after all these years if he hadn’t said his name right away? He sounds much older, his voice a little reedy, but, yes, he would have known his voice anywhere, the cadence of his words: careful, measured, kind. “I found your number because—well.” Another throat clear. Then he starts talking faster, as if he were nervous. “Your father has been carrying your number around and I thought I ought to try to get in touch because— Now he’s asleep and I’m with him and . . . I think you need to know that Jonah is not well. And he needs help, and I don’t mean because he’s been drinking. He’s not drinking. I thought you’d want to know that. Gabe—the other thing is, seeing your number made me realize that . . . I hope you’re well. I’ve always wondered how you are. I’d like to see you—I just hope you’ll come. Bye, then.”

Gabe listens to the message again. He puts the phone down. He swore when he left home that he’d never go back, not for anything. Now George is telling him that Jonah has stopped drinking. Isn’t that wonderful? Gabe drinks enough for the both of them at this point, and he can’t see George in his current state, or ever. And what the hell is George doing hanging around with Jonah anyway? Nothing makes any sense. You’re drunk. Didn’t happen. He picks up the bottle again. He drinks almost all of it in an endless gulp that makes his throat and chest feel like they’ve been filled with gasoline, then ignited. He pours the rest of the bourbon over the phone and watches the screen go black. A few minutes later, he passes out.