The hamper in the corner is empty, and I fold the wooden stand, flattening the fabric to a square on the floor. But underneath, right side up, is a slab of wood with words carved in and a rope attached by nails to the edges. I run my fingers over the letters—this must’ve once hung from his doorknob when he was younger.

The Bunker, it says, and even here, even now, I can’t stop the smile from spreading.

Last year, Labor Day weekend, my first time seeing his house. The first official day of us. I had just turned sixteen, the day before.

School would be starting on Tuesday, and the group of us were enjoying the last days of summer. Hailey had to leave early for back-to-school shopping, and her mom was picking us up, but Caleb offered to drive me home later. Hailey smiled at me then, like she knew.

On the way home later, Max and Sophie rode in the back. Max was in a rush—he had to get to work—and Sophie’s car was at his place. So we hit Max’s house first. This was the first time I had seen either of their homes. They both went to my school, which was private and not exactly inexpensive, and I didn’t want to judge too much, but their neighborhood didn’t seem to scream I can afford to send my kids to private school.

The town itself was considered affluent, but their homes were narrow and older, small yards crammed back to back, in a track. Max, I knew, had an unofficial baseball scholarship (unofficial because the school did not officially give athletic scholarships, but a rose by any other name and all)—my brother was the one who convinced him to apply to our school in the first place. But I didn’t know much about Caleb’s family situation.

“I live right behind them,” Caleb said as Max and Sophie piled out of the car, dragging their beach gear behind them. “Do you want to stop for a sec? Get something to eat first?”

He drummed his hands on the steering wheel, didn’t look at me when he asked.

“Okay,” I said, and my heart beat faster.

He drove around the block and parked in front of a small brick house, in a parallel spot, zipping into the space in a way that seemed like it was second nature to him. I followed him up the concrete steps, the iron railing wobbling under my hand. He used his key, one of several on a chain that held the letters of his favorite football team, and called, “Mom?” as he swung open the door.

His words echoed through the narrow halls. The floor was wooden, as was the staircase directly across from the front door. He dropped his bag at the entrance, led me through two small, partitioned rooms—a living room with an oversized couch across from the television; a dining room with a wooden table with red placemats and family pictures hanging on the walls—until we reached the kitchen.

He opened the pantry, then the fridge. “Okay, confession, really slim pickings here.” He squeezed his eyes shut, held out his hands. “I have food in my room, and I swear this isn’t a line.”

I laughed, and he opened his eyes, grinning sheepishly.

“After you, then.”

I followed him up one narrow flight of steps, and then the second, until I stepped across the threshold, looked at the built-in shelves along both side walls, which did hold bottles of sports drinks and assorted snacks.

“Welcome to the bunker,” he said, gesturing his arms around the room.

“May I?” I asked, grabbing a bag of M&M’s, which had been leaning against a stack of books on the bottom shelf.

“By all means,” he said, smiling. I ripped into the bag, surprised by how bright the room was with the sunlight pouring in through the single window behind his bed. “It’s not very bunkerish,” I said, “if I’m being totally honest.”

He put his hand on his heart, feigning shock. “Exhibit A, the shelves.”

I looked again. “The bookcases?”

“No, not bookcases. Pretty sure the people who lived here before us were end-of-the-world believers.”

The candy was slightly melted from the direct sunlight, and it stained my fingers red and green and brown. “You don’t believe in an eventual end of the world?” I asked.

“Oh, I do. I mean, eventually the sun will explode, or some supervirus will wipe us all out, but nothing that an attic full of food would save us from. I’m not that type of believer.”

“Or it was just a library,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, and he narrowed his eyes at the space. “I mean, I guess that’s possible. Except I found a box of cereal left behind the day we moved in. Just a single box of unopened cereal in the middle of the shelf. Like it wasn’t worth packing up.”

I looked again, tried to see this room filled with food, but it didn’t take. “I’m trying here, Caleb. But all I see is a library.”

“It doesn’t sound as cool to call it the library. Don’t go messing with my street cred, Jessa Whitworth.”

And then he took a step closer, like I knew he would, and he put a hand on my waist, like I knew he would. “Okay, I lied,” he said, “it was kind of a line.”

“I know,” I said, which made him laugh. And then his expression turned serious, his hand moved to the side of my face, and he stepped even closer, so his body brushed up against mine. I could feel his breath, the tremble of his hand, smell the salt and sunscreen and summer air as he leaned in to kiss me.

I kissed him back, my hands sliding around his waist, thinking that everything about him reminded me of the ocean, and that was perfect. His skin was still hot from the sun, and the salt water had dried in his hair, and I lost myself in the feeling of floating, of drifting. Then I heard a pitter-patter of steps echo from below, like an animal was loose.

Caleb pulled back, stepped away. “My mom is home,” he said. The four words every girl is dying to hear.

He launched himself down the steps, in that Caleb fashion I would come to know so well, but at the moment, I was just trying to orient myself, think up an excuse—Oh, hi, I was hungry and the M&M’s were upstairs; oh God, really? Really? I was practically tripping over myself to keep up.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, standing at the base of the stairs.

His mom was carrying a paper bag of groceries, lettuce peeking out the top. She had long, dark hair, the color of ink, and green eyes lined expertly with makeup, her lips a pale rose. Her eyes shifted from Caleb to me, currently standing behind him and trying not to die of embarrassment. A little girl darted in and out of view, a carbon copy of her mother, not paying any of us much attention.

“This is Jessa,” he said. And he left it at that. So many things he could’ve said, to clarify. For all of us.

This is Jessa, the girl I just kissed.

My friend, Jessa.

Julian’s sister, Jessa.

“Jessamyn Whitworth,” I said, stepping out from behind Caleb and sticking out my hand, as if I were here to sell her something.

I felt Caleb cut his eyes to me and grin, shaking his head.

She shifted the bag to her hip, took my hand in hers. “Ah, Jessa,” she said, like she’d heard my name before.

Caleb blushed. I blushed.

“Well, stay,” she said. “We just picked up way too much food. Sean won’t be home until later.”

I looked to Caleb, questioning. Stay, he mouthed.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks, Mrs….” And then I blanked. Caleb’s last name was Evers. But his mom had remarried. I had no idea what to call her.

“Eve,” she said. “My name is Eve. And this”—she tipped her head to the girl, now hanging off Caleb’s waist—“is Mia.”

This house feels so much larger with just me and his mother right now. I think of the two of them—Mia and Eve—alone here now. Caleb’s stepfather Sean left them first, and now Caleb is gone. The house was built for four. The master bedroom on the first floor, with the kitchen and living room and dining room. The second floor, with Mia’s room, another bedroom (which was probably supposed to be Caleb’s), and a bathroom. A set of narrow wooden steps of exposed wood to the attic, which was probably not supposed to be a bedroom at all. The bunker, I whisper to myself.

I try to picture it as the room it had been when Caleb moved in. Bare walls, empty floor, a single box of cereal on the shelves, like a pantry. Except there’s a closet. Pantries don’t have closets. I’d told Caleb this.

Bunkers do, he said.

I’m trying to latch on to the sound of his voice, hold his words tight in my head, because I can feel them fading away. Drifting into the fog of memory.

This house always felt so alive, with Caleb up here, his sister below, music playing from his speakers, the television blaring from downstairs.

I want to tell him about silence now. How silence can fill a room, seep into the corners, take a place over. How it feels heavy, heavy enough to drown out the memory of his voice. I want to tell him how I spent that first week calling his phone before it was disconnected, just to hear the sound of his voicemail recording, because I felt the silence pressing down. Everything about him, slipping through the cracks, taking me with him.