“Agnes, you sure you wanna do this?”

We were sitting in my sister’s car in the middle of the night, about to do what I’d been dreaming of for months: getting the hell out of Mursey. Being free. Being with her.

“No,” I said.

Because as much as I wanted to run, as many times as I told myself we’d make it work, that we’d come up with a plan … Deep down, I knew this might not end well. Stories like ours never did. But I remembered that poem in English, the Robert Frost poem Bo said was about how we tell our stories and change our histories.

And this was my story. This whole last year. And tonight. And wherever we went from here. This was the story I’d tell.

I looked over at her. Or, at the space where I guessed she was. It was too dark for me to see anything but a few dots of light on the dashboard. So I had no idea if I was looking at her face or not. Somehow, though, I felt like I was.

“But I’m doing it anyway.”

I heard her take a breath, then there was the sound of the garage door opening behind us.

Even though this story could end a thousand different ways, and even though chances were, it might not have a happy ending, it didn’t matter. Because I already knew how I was gonna tell this story.

Bo Dickinson changed my life. She made it beautiful and messy. She made me happy, she scared me, she showed me I could be tough, and she showed me how it felt to live. She ruined my reputation and I loved every second of it.

Because she was the best friend I’d ever had. And I would have followed her off the edge of the earth if I had to.

That was our poetry. Our story. And it was one I’d be telling until the day I died.

“Love you, Bo,” I said.

“Love you, too.”