Isaac is working at a drama camp run out of an independent theater company.

I put on a jean skirt, my favorite ice-blue tank top, and my newly washed boots from Peak Wilderness because although they’re ugly, by now they feel both earned and symbolic.

I don’t think about it too much in advance, and I don’t warn him I’m coming.

I am nervous, but I am not a scared little girl anymore.

And I am done with having regrets when it comes to Isaac.

I arrive just as the doors are opening, and wait off to the side at the bottom of the steps as Isaac emerges with a gaggle of children and checks off each name on a clipboard as they’re picked up by parents and caregivers.

He has too much going on to notice me, which is good news because the sight of him, actually looking at him after months of looking past/around/over him, has momentarily paralyzed me.

He is taller and scruffier-looking, and the hair on his arms has lightened with the sun. He’s wearing jean shorts, and a black T-shirt with Mickey Mouse on it, and sandals. He’s cute as hell with the kids, totally dialed in. As he waves to the last one—a little brunette who gazes up at him with giant, adoring blue eyes—my insides lurch.

He is taking a final look around when I finally get my legs functioning again and start up the stairs. The movement catches his eye and for a second he freezes.

And then, zoom, he’s in front of me.

“Ingrid! Hi.”

“Hi,” I manage, rather dorkishly. “Andreas said . . . you stopped by.”

“Yes, I . . .” He flushes, clearly at a loss for where to begin.

“Let me just say . . . I am an idiot.” I dive right in. “I completely, unequivocally forgive you for not officially breaking up with Autumn before we started making out backstage during the play, and in fact, it’s not even something that needs to be forgiven by me, anyway. I’m over it, in other words. And we don’t have to rehash it . . . unless you want to.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“Also, I want you to be in my life no matter what. We can be friends, or . . . whatever.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “‘Whatever’?”

“I’m comfortable with ‘whatever’ . . . as a starting point,” I say, trying to act calm despite the somersaults in my stomach. I want to be honest and brave, but hopefully I can do so without acting like a freak. “I still care about you. I never stopped. But you might have a girlfriend. And I’m moving to London. We have a lot of talking to do. I have a story to tell you. If, that is, you’re willing to hear it,” I say.

“I’m free right now.”

“It might take the rest of the summer,” I warn him. “It’s a long one.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “I have time.”

“All right, then.” I say this, but then nothing further comes out of my mouth because all I can do is look at him, and somehow I am seeing and hearing the city around us—cars and buses and cyclists, small children playing in a park across the way, birds chirping, the sun casting its late-afternoon gold over everything—and at the same time there is only Isaac, standing on the stairs in front of me with a gaze so loaded, and yet so pure.

“I missed you,” he says, into the too-long pause.

I catch my breath, still fixed to the spot mere steps from him.

“No one has ever driven me as crazy as you drove me,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I manage to say.

“It’s all right. You frustrated me, but you also made me think. And feel. And change. It’s not a bad thing.”

“It’s not an easy thing, either, Isaac.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “But it was good. We were good.”

“Past tense?” I say, then put a hand up to stop him from replying. “No, don’t answer that yet. You can’t predict how you’re going to react until we’ve talked. I want to do this properly.”

“That sounds both rational and wise,” he says, and his eyes are so deep, so intent, so warm, staring into mine.

“I know I wasn’t so great at communicating sometimes. I’m not so scared anymore,” I say, the sudden urge to stare down at my feet, or up at the theater, or anywhere but directly at him belying my words. “Or . . . I am, but I’m going to do it anyway.”

Isaac smiles like he can sense my struggle and is gently amused by it.

“What?” I say, chin lifted.

“Just . . . maybe it would diminish your fear to know that whatever you tell me, nothing will change three particular facts,” he says.

“Which are . . . ?”

“One: I’m very fond of London.”

“Okay . . .”

“Two: I do not have a girlfriend.”

“Oh. Okay, good,” I say, trying to remain cool even though I want to start cheering and jumping up and down. “What’s the third?”

“Three: I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

“Oh!” I say, with an embarrassing gasp. “Um. Here?”

“The students are gone and we have the steps to ourselves,” he says with a wave of his arm. “Not sure if that fits in with your plan of doing things properly, though.”

“The plan . . . is flexible.”

“Well, as always, we can discuss it,” he says with a hilarious glint in his eyes. “At length, if need be.”

“No,” I say, melting and laughing at the same time.

“No kiss?”

“No need to discuss at length.”

“Excellent. Fantastic,” he says, coming closer. “Do we need to count to three?”

I grin and answer him, but not with words this time.