When I wake, it’s dark. The first thing I hear is the tap of rain against the metal roof of the car. The first thing I see, coming into focus, is Nolan’s face, asleep, his lips slightly parted, so at peace. It’s like seeing the Nolan that lives underneath, one that might be possible if his life had followed a different path, a different set of circumstances.

The second thing I notice is the colors, faintly flashing against the window beyond his head. Blue, red, alternating in the streaks of rain against the glass. I push myself to sitting. “Nolan,” I say, shaking him awake.

He stirs, rubbing his eyes. “What?”

“The police,” I say.

Nolan sits upright almost as fast as I did. “What are we doing,” he says, but it comes out slow, like his brain hasn’t fully caught up to the sequence of events.

What’s our story. Why are we here. We’re parked in an alley behind an abandoned factory, in the middle of the night, in some town where we don’t belong. What are we doing? We’re two teenagers, trespassing. Sleeping. We look like runaways. There’s no way the police won’t take Nolan’s ID, run his name, contact his parents.

“Trust me?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says immediately, but he’s staring out the window, immobile as the bright light gets closer.

I slide over the console to his seat so I’m facing him, a knee on either side of his legs.

“What—”

He’s two steps behind, his arms out and to the side like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“Seriously, Nolan, at least pretend.” I grab his wrists and hook them around my waist so his hands press to my lower back.

I don’t think, I just lean down and kiss him. His entire body tenses, and then his fingers press deeper into my waist, and his other hand trails up my back, and it occurs to me he knows exactly how to pretend, when the rap of a flashlight against the window jars us apart.

My heart beats quickly, and his hands still grip my waist. I have to squint from the light, and Nolan raises a hand to his eyes. He lets go of me to lower the window more, and the officer leans into the car, the rain dripping from his black hood, the smell of summer rain filling the car, the humidity surrounding us.

He frowns, and his face, so close, smells of rain and aftershave. “This is private property,” he says, though he backs away, seeing the position we’re in. He looks away, like he doesn’t want to look too closely at the disheveled clothing, the fact that we’re young enough to need to be in a car, for privacy.

I duck my head into Nolan’s shoulder, then slide from his lap, back to my side of the car.

“Sorry,” Nolan says. “We didn’t know. It just looked like a”—he winces—“an empty road.”

The officer sighs, panning the light back and forth between us. He shakes his head. “Go home,” he says firmly.

Nolan nods and raises the window as the cop walks back to his car. We sit in silence, both of us breathing heavily, until the red and blue lights turn off. Then Nolan clears his throat and turns the car around, looping us back onto the main road, where we pull into the parking lot of the gas station, which has a twenty-four-hour convenience store attached.

The whole time, it’s painfully silent. He doesn’t look my way or try to make a joke to lighten the mood. Nothing.

Not even a Thanks for the quick thinking, Kennedy.

I finally look over at him, and he looks decidedly uncomfortable. I thought he felt the same as I did—like Joe had noticed, too. But then I think, Maybe he’s just a great pretender. Maybe I always only see what I want to see: in Nolan, in Elliot, in myself.

“I need a soda,” he says, his voice scratchy, as he exits the car.

“I’ll get it,” I say. I slam the door, and he jumps, frowning at me. “It didn’t have to be that hard, Nolan.” I take a step back, toward the store. “But thank you for your sacrifice, either way.”

And then I step out from the overhang of the station, thankful for the rain.