Behind the trophies, stuck against the wall, I see a white and brown seashell, spiral shaped, long and narrow. My heart plummets into my stomach. I can’t believe he kept this. I never knew he had it, tucked behind a stack of gold trophies, a row of achievements throughout his life.

Valentine’s Day. Caleb wanted to take me to the beach. He said restaurants were overrated, and besides, everyone else would be doing that. Everything, according to Caleb, would be crowded and expensive and lame. And anyway, we could trace our beginning to the beach. That first picture on his wall. The moment he knew.

It counted for more, he said. It had meaning.

It fell on a weekend, and he picked me up at three, and we drove out to the beach, which was vast and abandoned—a cold beige, a deep blue. For as far as we could see, it was empty, and it was ours.

The wind whipped up off the water, and he took my hand, wrapped an arm around me on second thought.

But here’s the thing about the beach in winter: the sand scratches at your ankles in the wind, and it’s somehow more intimidating. It roars, cold saltwater spray stinging my eyes so tears formed at the corners.

“This is the least romantic thing ever. I was so wrong,” he said, laughing. He pulled me closer, and I buried my face in his chest.

“It’s terrible.”

“The worst.” I heard the words through his chest, alongside the howling wind.

I bent down, my fingers digging into the sand. “Here, have a shell. There was once a living creature inside it, but now it’s probably dead.”

“You shouldn’t have. Truly.” He held it to his face. “I will treasure this always. Just as soon as I get the stench of dead marine life out of it.”

He tipped my head up, and I wrinkled my nose. “I think there’s sand in my shoes.”

He smiled, his eyes shifting to the violent ocean behind us. “I thought candlelit dinners were cliché and lame, but I’m beginning to see the error of my ways.”

“All I want is heat,” I said, clinging to the front of his jacket dramatically.

“That can be arranged.”

“Not at your house.”

“Not at my house,” he agreed.

“And not at my house,” I said.

He seemed to think for a moment, two, and then said, “Okay.”

Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of the county library. “Um,” I said.

“Just trust me,” he said. He took my hand in the nearly empty parking lot, and made a big show of pressing the automatic door button, gesturing for me to enter.

The hallway outside the library entrance was quiet and lined with posters made by children. There was a display of flowers, and hearts from the children’s craft hour in alternating bursts of pink and red. Through the double doors of the library itself, a woman briefly looked up and smiled, then went back to her book.

“It’s empty,” I whispered.

“It is Valentine’s Day,” he said.

We walked the stacks, his arm around me, taking in the warmth and the quiet, like we were strolling the beach. He led me through the fiction aisles, to the row of computers, hidden away in cubbies. “Come on,” he said, tugging my hand and leading us toward the periodical desk. It was empty, and there were a few single cubbies for working scattered around the perimeter.

“My favorite desk,” he whispered, leading me toward the cubby pressed against the window. He quickly looked over his shoulder before opening the bottom cabinet. Inside was the computer tower, humming. But there was a shelf above it, with a separate drawer. Caleb opened the drawer, reaching deep into the dark, and pulled out a handful of candy, the wrappers echoing in the silence.

“This is yours?” I asked.

He smiled. “They give me a hard time about bringing food in. But you know how I am about food. So I keep some reserves on hand, just in case.” He patted the top of the desk, and I hopped onto the surface. He unwrapped a candy, offered it to me.

“They never find it?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said. “I’ve been using this desk for a year. Nobody checks the drawers.” I peered inside the open drawer. There was also a pen inside, and what looked like his math homework, half-completed. “Promise you won’t tell,” he whispered.

“Promise,” I said as the taste of butterscotch filled my mouth.

“Come on,” he whispered, pulling me off the desk. “We’re not done here yet.”

There were large, uncovered windows facing the trees. Beanbag chairs in the shapes of animals, in the kids’ section. A framed print of an atlas map on a wall, signed by the artist.

He kissed me in the travel aisle, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, and I thought, I love him, I love him. I really do.

In the days after his death, I’d spent plenty of time with the map program open, looking for where he might’ve been heading.

The bridge was on the route we took for the beach, so I was familiar with the passing landmarks. I thought of the food places we’d stopped at on the way, or on the way back. Picking up ice at the gas station for the cooler we were hauling with us to the shore. The ice cream shop, open seasonally during summer hours only. I supposed it was possible he was in the sudden mood for a hoagie. But there were closer places, on the way back from the meet to his house.

I had traced the roads that forked off after the bridge, looking for any possibilities. I’d thought, briefly, of the library again. He was the only student I knew who used the library outside of school. Most of my classmates, if they needed a library, used the school facility. If they were going to a study group, they’d meet at someone’s house.

But he really would go study at the library. I think he liked getting out of his house. I think he liked the silence. If I drove by his place and he wasn’t home, and he didn’t answer his phone, I’d know where to find him.

He had found himself some solace there.

For a while, I was convinced he’d been heading there. After the meet. Except he hadn’t brought his backpack with him, that day. It was, I had heard, still in his room. He had taken nothing with him that might tip us off. And so everything circled back to me.