“Jessa?”

His mother’s voice funnels up the steps, the second before her footsteps. I exit out of the program so she won’t think I was snooping, shut down the computer, and turn the monitor to black before racing to the door. I slide the lacrosse stick from its position, opening the door just as her hand turns the knob.

“Hi,” I say.

She tips her head to the side gently, probably noticing I’m out of breath and flushed. “I wasn’t sure if you were still up here. It’s been so quiet.”

I nod, gesturing to the boxes. “I did the drawers. The sports stuff.”

My mind is swirling, the words on the tip of my tongue: Someone changed his email password. Someone else has been through his things. Through his email. Through here.

My first thought, the first image I see, is of Caleb, hovering over a computer screen somewhere, changing his password. But I shake the thought, the painful hope, before thinking of all the other possibilities: Eve, Mia, Max; a nameless girl whom he knew just as well, who sent him letters, who he met up with—

Eve frowns. “Will you be coming directly from school tomorrow?”

It’s then I notice that the sky has gone dark, the shadows from the fan slanting across the walls.

“I think so,” I say. I grab my purse and brush by her, my body trembling.

She grabs my bag as I pass, our bodies filling up the narrow stairwell. “Leave everything.”

I flinch. “I did.”

Her fingers don’t let up, but they don’t tug harder, either. “Can I see?” she asks.

I nod, offering my purse over to her. I have this fear that she will bar me from this room, from their lives, once more, and I’ll never know what happened. I have this instinct that she doesn’t trust me up here all alone, and I’m scared she will change her mind—that just as I’m peeling away the top layer, everything that is Caleb will be gone for good.

She unzips the bag, runs her fingers along my wallet, my phone, jangling the pack of gum and ChapStick, the spare coins, the extra tampon. The pictures are in my room, safely transported the day before. The bus ticket is wedged into the back pocket of my jeans. If she sees the strip of condoms I’ve stuffed into the bottom of my purse, she doesn’t say.

“Okay?” I ask, but I’m already pulling my purse away. I want her hands out of my things—my things—but I don’t want her to keep me from coming back. It’s a tightrope, and I don’t know how to manage her. It must be the same for her: that she both wants me here, doing this for her, and doesn’t want me here, my hands in her son’s things, reminding her of the start of the chain of events—Caleb at my meet, the beginning of the end. All I know is there is not space for both of us in this room.

Eve says nothing, but she doesn’t object as I make my way down the staircase, my feet moving Caleb-speed, my body trembling, the air thrumming. I move quickly, terrified that she’ll notice the outline of the ticket in my pocket, that she’ll stop me, and call me back.

I burst through the front door and race to my car, and it’s not until I have the car running that I put my hands on my head and take a deep breath. I breathe slowly with my eyes closed before placing my hands on the wheel. The front porch light flicks on, and as I pull away, I see the curtains move.

There’s a note on the kitchen table: Took Julian to train station.

My house is too big for just me. The kitchen gives way to the living room and the dining room and the foyer, all at once. The staircase is twice as wide as the one at Caleb’s house, and the balcony overlooks the open layout of the downstairs. Our rooms are spread out upstairs beyond the balcony in the back half of the house, the windows facing the inclined backyard and the stone patio that’s rarely used once the weather turns.

Everything echoes here.

I leave on the light near the front steps and make my way to my room, keeping my door open so I can hear when my parents return.

I want to sort through the photos from Caleb’s room, which I’ve stored in my closet, on the shelf just out of reach. Now, I fan them over the blue bedspread on my full-sized mattress, adding the ticket from my pocket to the mix. There’s a canopy overtop the bed, strung from the bedposts, from when I was younger, and it’s blocking the light.

I remember Caleb running his fingers over the gauzy white material the first time he was up here, whistling between his teeth.

He fell onto his back, his hands behind his head, looking straight up. “I’m just trying to see it,” he said, “the world according to Jessa.”

My room might’ve been bigger, but his had far more privacy. He walked around mine that first day like he was in a museum gallery, his hands hovering over the decorations, the jewelry box, but never touching. Like there was something untouchable about the world I inhabited, still.

Now, the photos take his spot on the bed. The only thing out on the surface of my dresser is the broken dragonfly necklace, not put away, not replaced on a new chain, just waiting there, as if I’m not sure what to do with it. All it does now is remind me. He’s everywhere now. Even here.

I sort through the photos, pulling out the shot of us at the Delaware Water Gap.

I lean closer to the photo of us at the waterfall, Caleb staring back, his eyes locking on mine through the lens and time. I turn on my computer, to try to map it exactly, remembering where we were, the details from the sign. I check the photo to see if there are any mile markers, something that might map to our final location. I look at various images from other people’s hikes at the Delaware Water Gap, trying to find an exact match.

There’s something similar in several of the photos, but nothing that captures this exact perspective. There will never be another shot like this—the two of us on the rock, an arc of water in the background, our faces frozen in place and time, a feeling I can remember just from my expression alone.

There’s a knock on the door downstairs, and I shut my laptop and stack the photos, sliding them into my top drawer. I check my phone for messages, thinking Hailey would’ve texted first. But there’s nothing. The bell rings as I walk down the steps, and it echoes, sets my nerves on edge.

The lights are on in the foyer downstairs, and my car’s in the driveway, so I can’t pretend I’m not home. I check the front window and see a car I don’t recognize. The bell rings again. I peer through the peephole, and it’s Terrance Bilson, my brother’s ex-teammate, current alumnus, previous giver-of-questionable-look at the coach’s meeting.

My shoulders relax as I pull the door open. “He left already,” I say. “Sorry.”

But Terrance doesn’t move. He peers over my shoulder into the empty spaces, the darkened rooms. “I didn’t have your number, or I would’ve called first.” He angles his foot across the threshold, and I tighten my grip on the door. “I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

I don’t open the door any wider, because I don’t really know Terrance all that well, other than the fact that he played baseball with Julian and Max.

He must sense this fact, because he steps back. “Will you come out for a minute?”

It’s cold, and the neighbors are home, and his car is in the street, and anyone can see. “No, it’s okay. Come on in.”

Terrance looks around briefly, lingering near the entrance. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t really seem to know how to start.

“So, what are we talking about?” I ask. I remember the look he gave me Saturday night, and it puts me on the defensive.

He blinks, his gaze shifting back to me, as if remembering. “Caleb.”

My jaw tenses, the word echoing in the foyer with the too-high ceilings, and I know my body language must give me away.

“I saw him, in September,” Terrance continues, and then I understand. I remember.

“The college visit. Was that with you?”

He nods. “It was supposed to be. He showed up, but then he disappeared.”

“What do you mean, he disappeared?”

“Just that. He checked in, but I didn’t see him again until he was leaving. He came back Sunday afternoon for his luggage. He had a bag from the school store in his hand, and he looked like crap. He apologized, and left, and I never saw him again.” His voice trails off, because his words have an unintended finality. I wonder if everyone has their own story for the last time they saw him. A story they each tell anytime the name comes up, becoming more embellished over time.

Caleb’s phone had gone to voicemail during that trip. We had fought about it after. All I had to go on was my imagination then, and now Terrance is here, making those images even more real.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I think it’s a dick move, what they’re saying.”

I almost say What are they saying? just to watch him squirm, but that would be a dick move too, so I don’t.

What they’re saying: He came to see her, and she sent him away at the race. He looked angry. She sent him away, he was upset, and he crashed. He drowned.

It’s the precipitating event. There’s no logic to it, but it’s the simplest explanation. All I’d said was, Please hold this for me. Please be careful. But it was too far for anyone to hear, so the words become anything, become everything.

What they believe: Caleb had come to ask for my forgiveness (one rumor), or to try again (another rumor), or to confess he was still in love with me (uncorroborated, but a nice sentiment), and I’d said no. Something I did caused him to leave angry, and he wasn’t paying close enough attention, and then he died. Cause. Effect.

“I mean, he wasn’t this perfect guy,” Terrance continues, filling the silence. “It’s not your fault, right?”

“I never sent him away,” I say. I hadn’t told anyone this before—first, because I was in shock, then because I wondered if it was true, and now because it didn’t matter anymore what I said: it was too late. But something about Terrance in my foyer, a stranger giving me secrets—I was a sucker for them. “I asked him to hold my necklace. He disappeared. That was it. He didn’t say anything. I don’t know why he left. I don’t know where he was going.” It was another student and a parent who gave that account—who both said they saw him standing in the crowd after, that he looked upset. With nothing else to go on, the story filled in around it.

Terrance nods, unsure what to do with the information, whether to believe me or not—then seems to decide on something. “Okay, there’s one more thing.”

“What is it?”

“Someone came looking for him that weekend, at my dorm room.”

I flash to the letter in his book. An image of the girl in the ski gear. The blond braid, highlighted even in the winter. Ashlyn, he’d said.

“Tall, skinny dude,” he says, and I can’t reconcile the image in my head with his words. “I don’t know what he wanted with him. But he showed up while Caleb was gone. Said he wanted to leave a package for him. I said sorry, that I had no idea who he was talking about, because that seemed like the right thing to say. Guy kind of freaked me out a little. And I’m not holding some package in my room for anyone else, sorry.”

He hadn’t been answering my calls. I’d imagined Caleb drinking, at a party with girls, living it up. Not dealing with some guy with a package for him. Not coming back with a headache because of some other reason. The whole event that precipitated our breakup was not what I’d thought it had been.

“Anyway,” he says, taking a step closer. “I’ve been meaning to get this to you.” He pulls something from his pocket.

“What is that?” I say.

Terrance holds a white plastic bag, wrapped up in his fist. “He left it behind. I was going to call your brother, but then I saw you yesterday. I just didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t find it until I was packing to come home for the weekend. I think it was for you.”

“We broke up,” I say, staring at the bag. As if I am no longer entitled to its contents. I don’t reach for it, at first.

“When?” he asks.

“After. Right after.”

“I didn’t know that,” he says. He lifts his hand toward me. “I don’t know if this will make it better or worse.”

I stare at his closed fist. In his hand is the bag from the school gift shop, wrapped up around something small. I take it from his grip, letting it unravel, and I peer inside.

“That’s your name? Your full name?” Terrance asks, and I nod.

“Thank you,” I say, trying not to choke on the words. I’m shaking by the time I shut the door behind him.