THE NEWS brEAKS THIS MORNING: “AFTER THREATENING TO WALK AWAY, Virion Now Buying Atomic for $15 Billion.”

That must have been all those meetings, I think. Negotiating the price even higher. That’s why he’s been so distant.

Of course his company’s acquisition would be more important than spending my last few days in the city together. It makes sense. Still, the flower in my chest that had bloomed throughout this summer feels like it’s withering.

I’m all packed up when there’s a knock on my door.

It’s him. He’s dressed far too nicely, like he’s about to be on television or something. Is he going to do an interview for the acquisition? It doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone soon.

I look at him expectantly, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t make a move to step inside. He looks so serious. This is it, isn’t it? The awkward goodbye before we go our separate ways and pretend this summer never existed?

“You must be happy,” I tell Parker, trying and failing to summon a smile. “About the acquisition.”

Parker doesn’t look happy at all. No, he looks tired. Irritated. He eyes my luggage like he wants to burn it.

“Before you leave,” he says, “I—I wanted to show you something.”

I look around. “I don’t know . . . I still have to clean up, and I don’t like being late to flights.”

The words spill out of him. “Please. It won’t take long.”

“Okay,” I say, because even though I can feel the walls that he broke down being built back up again, like boarding up windows before a storm, I must be a masochist, because I want to spend every remaining moment in New York with him. Even if some of them might hurt.

A car is waiting for us in front of the building. I don’t ask where we’re going—it doesn’t matter. Places never really did. It was all about me and him this summer. That’s what I realize as I watch the city pass by in the window behind him.

He was my summer. And now, it’s over.

Parker doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at me. We look so different right now, me in my airport-friendly loungewear, him in a suit that looks like the one he wore for his congressional testimony. It’s like a stark reminder that we were never meant to fit together.

My throat is already feeling tight, knowing this is goodbye. Knowing I’ll look back at this moment one day and wish I said something . But I don’t. I turn toward my window and watch office buildings turn into pretty stores that line Fifth Avenue like presents. During the holidays, they’re all wrapped in lights, but even now, each facade is perfectly maintained. There’s a roadblock ahead. The car stops.

Parker opens the door. I frown. Is there a parade? Are we going to have to walk the rest of the way?

Without missing a beat, Parker helps me out, then leads me past the signs and barricades. “I—I think the road is closed,” I say, looking around. I’ve never seen New York City so empty. We keep walking, and I can see all the way to the park. Nothing is blocking it. There aren’t any people elbowing their way past, there aren’t any pedicabs charging airline fees for a few blocks, there aren’t any earsplitting horns. It’s quiet. It’s almost like we’re on a movie set. Realization hits later than it should have. He did this.

New York City never sleeps, never stops, but it has for Parker Warren.

“You literally stopped traffic,” I say, standing in the middle of the street. “Why?”

What could he possibly have needed to rent out Fifth Avenue for? I wait for an answer that never comes, so I turn around for one of my last looks at a city I used to hate. I watch it through an unobstructed view, shadows long across the pavement, sunlight sparkling against metal finishes. The city is beautiful in the summer, gilded, gleaming.

I turn to Parker, expecting him to be taking it in too, but he’s just watching me. And he looks far too serious. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t leave.”

I swallow. This is what I wanted to hear, isn’t it? But no. It doesn’t make sense. As much as I don’t want this summer to end, reality is like gravity, teasing reason apart from feeling. “Parker, you said it yourself. You don’t have time for a relationship. And I’m no good in them, I—”

“I’m not taking the Virion deal,” he says.

What? I frown. “They’re giving you billions more dollars,” I say, like maybe he might have missed that part.

“In June, I might have taken it. But now . . . I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“They insist on selling our customers’ data. I negotiated some limitations on it, and they eventually accepted and raised the price, but I—I just can’t. I care, I guess. And everyone needs something to care about.” He’s repeating my own words back to me. Something in my chest tightens. He remembers everything, I think. Like every word that comes out of my mouth is a script to be pored over and annotated.

“Doesn’t that mean you won’t get the money? You won’t have an exit?”

He nods. “I’ll go back to running it. It will be far less money in my pocket, but at least I’ll have the freedom to do what I think is right.”

“You’ll still be busy,” I say. Maybe not as busy as he would be if he became the CEO of Virion, but he’ll continue to be the CEO of Atomic.

That was what he said, why this couldn’t work. He was too busy for a relationship.

“I will be,” he says. “But I’ll never be too busy for you.”

I swallow. I want that to be true. I want our lives to fit together like a puzzle, but we’re both corner pieces.

“You said your company comes first. That it always will.”

“Elle, for you, I’ll move the company here, to New York. For you, I’ll hire another CEO. For you, I’ll give all my money away. I don’t care. None of it matters. Not the way you do.”

He can’t mean that. Besides, I don’t want that. “I don’t want you to resent me. I don’t want you to do anything just because you think I want you to. I don’t want you to give up all these things you’ve always wanted.”

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to do,” he says. “And, Elle, just so we’re clear: I’ve never wanted anything like I’ve wanted you.”

I’m not sure I’m breathing. My eyes are burning.

He steps toward me, in the middle of the empty street. His green eyes are pinning me in place. “I love you, Elle.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No, you don’t.”

“I do,” he says, voice so earnest it makes my heart break.

“No.” I take a step back. “You don’t understand. You don’t know me. I’m horrible. If I have an appointment, I can’t do anything else that day. It’s pathetic. I get way too happy when the barista remembers my name. I have to give myself a pep talk for fifteen minutes before calling the doctor’s office.” I can’t stop talking, words are just spilling out, because if I stop, he’ll say something else, and I’m afraid of how it might make me feel. “And, speaking of that, how is everyone else so . . . responsible? How do they just, like . . . go to the post office? Or do their taxes on time? I’m such a mess, it’s unbelievable. Trust me.”

The corner of his mouth crooks up. “Elle, are you trying to convince me not to love you?”

“Yes!” I say. “Yes, exactly.”

“Too late,” he says. “And yes, Elle, I know you. I know you, and I love you.”

He’s right in front of me now. His thumb brushes across my cheek, and that’s when I realize I’m crying. Why am I crying?

It’s because I know. I know he’s telling the truth. This summer, I let him in, I let him see me, I let him know me. And he loves me.

It’s scary. To love me is to know my scars, and I’m the only one who’s ever seen all of them.

But I want him to see. I want to shed my bristles, let him learn every piece of me, and love me wholly.

“I know you, and I love you too,” I say, before I can help myself. Then I choke on a sob. It’s true. I’ve loved him for a while. No use in denying it now, even though I’m about to get on a plane back home. I shake my head. Tears are running freely now, and I want them to stop, but they won’t. “God, feelings are so embarrassing,” I say. “That’s why I just write them down. Make someone else say them.”

That’s when Parker slowly, eyes never leaving mine, gets down on one knee.

My body stills. The city is quiet around us, like it’s holding its breath.

“What are you doing?” I say, panic closing in, realization settling in my bones. “You don’t want to get married,” I remind him. “You said it was the world’s stupidest contract.”

He’s smiling now. “If you marry me, Elle, it will be the best contract I ever sign.”

There’s no ring. I don’t care. All I see is him, and my feelings are everywhere now. Every emotion I’ve pressed down this summer is rising to the surface, and I want this . I don’t want this summer to end. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to be apart from him again.

“Marry me, Elle,” he says. “We can figure the rest out later. Together.”

“Yes,” I say, before I can think about all the reasons not to. His smile widens, eyes crinkling. I’ve never seen him happier.

Then he kisses me.

He kisses me, and I can see it. A future. A life. An endless summer.

“There’s one more thing,” he says, and he takes my hand. Walks me to the closest store. Its door looks like an arched gate, like something from a fairytale; there is greenery framing the windows.

Harry Winston. It’s empty inside, just like the street. The cases are all open.

I swallow. I’ve seen this movie. “Do I . . . you know . . . pick one ?” I say.

Parker frowns, like he doesn’t get the reference at all. Like he has no idea what I’m talking about. “No. They’re all yours.”

I blink. “Parker, I don’t need—”

“There are ninety-four. One for every day we’ve spent together this summer. I picked out all of them.” Sensing my reluctance, or maybe horror, he says, “Sell them. Give them to charity. I don’t care. They’re yours.”

He reaches into his suit pocket. “And there’s something else.”

He pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me. It’s a deed. My eyes narrow, not understanding, until I see the address.

I know it better than my own. I’ve searched it multiple times, in my worst of writing slumps. I have the listing printed out and glued to the manifestation board Penelope made me make three New Years ago. It’s my dream house.

Somewhere behind my ribs, my heart breaks.

“It’s yours.”

No. Slowly, everything good turns bitter. I blink too many times, hoping, wishing, this isn’t what I think it is.

When I look up at Parker, he must sense my horror, because his smile slowly disappears. “Elle—”

But I’ve stepped away. I shake my head, like maybe my emotions will fall back into place, maybe this will make sense, maybe the last few moments can be eaten up and there won’t be this seed of betrayal growing roots in my stomach.

“You didn’t, Parker. Tell me you didn’t.”

He’s confused. Panicked. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, and that’s the worst part.

He points to a place on the document. “This is a transfer document. Once you sign, it will be in your name. It’s yours. I’ll have no control over it. It—”

“You don’t get it, Parker,” I say, my voice breaking. “It’s not just about control. It’s about pride, it’s about me . I wanted to buy it with my own work, on my own terms . You took that from me. You—you don’t even understand why that means something to me.”

My world starts spinning.

It’s him, in the stairwell, implying that he could buy my affection. It’s my father paying my student loans right out from under me.

This was my dream . The one I’ve saved for. The one I’ve had since I was eighteen.

And he’s just taken it away from me.

I hear my mother in my head. What am I doing? How could I think this would work?

“Elle,” he says, reaching toward me, “what’s wrong?”

Everything. Absolutely everything.

I take a step back, just out of grasp. “I can’t do this,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.” I turn to leave.

He gently grabs on to my wrist. His eyes are wide—I’ve never seen him so afraid. Not in front of Congress, not when his acquisition wasn’t going through. He was always collected. Uncaring. Now, his eyes are glistening. “Please, Elle. Let me fix this.”

But there’s no fixing this. There never was. I knew from the very beginning this relationship wouldn’t work. I should have listened to myself. I should have known one summer wasn’t long enough to change anyone.

I can buy anything I want.

Is that what he thinks? That he could buy me? Buy my dreams? Buy my love? I was wrong. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t understand me.

How could he?

“Elle,” he calls, as I curl my hand around the door handle, “don’t do this.”

But I have to.

I leave the jewelry shop. I can feel him follow me. I can hear him calling out my name.

The street is closed, there aren’t any taxis. Tears are blurring my vision. I just start walking as fast as I can, then I’m running, then I’m sobbing, because I really thought this was it. I thought I had finally found someone who understands the unique and complicated shade of me.

I was wrong.

Streets go by, and finally there are cars, it feels like the city has finally released its breath. There are people on the sidewalks, elbowing past me, who don’t care that my chest feels like it’s locking up for good.

I wave my hand frantically, until finally a taxi takes pity on me.

It’s a blur. Getting my luggage. Leaving the apartment I’ve spent the summer in. Leaving the building. Saying goodbye to the city.

And then taking another taxi out of it.