Page 112 of Never Not Friends

And another.

And once we were together again, leaving never crossed my mind.

Leaving isn’t something I do.

Juliet’s hand goes to my leg. “What has you thinking about all this right now?”

I smile softly, placing my hand on top of hers. “Just thinking about us. Where we started. Where we’re going.”

“That’s sweet.” Her lips push into a closed-mouth smile.

I bring her fingers to my lips, kissing the back of her hand.

She smiles then slips her hand out of mine, turning back around to flip through more pictures.

I love Juliet.

Even when I haven’t felt ready to take the next step with her.

I’ve always heard that you’re never completely ready for marriage. At some point, you just have to trust it. Choose it.

That word catches in the back of my mind.

Because now I’m starting to wonder if staying with someone is the same as choosing them.

EMMA

I know I shouldn’t, but I walk over to my window and look outside.

Under the glow of the streetlight sits Vinny’s car in front of Juliet’s mom’s house. My hand drops, the curtain slowly falling back into place as I stand there.

I wish I could say I was numb.

That I didn’t feel anything at all.

But the truth is, I feel everything.

I glance over my shoulder at the box that’s had a home at the top of my shelf in every room and every apartment I’ve ever lived in.

It’s my “Vinny Box.”

Unmarked and hidden away for safekeeping.

I rarely look at it these days. I know better than to open up Pandora’s box. But tonight, I feel like sitting in the heartache of it all.

“Mind your own business,” I say to Chili as I pass his cage. I just know he’s judging me as I take it down from its spot on the top shelf and carry it to my bed.

There’s a moment of hesitation before I open it.

A walk down memory lane is going to hurt so bad. But I just can’t seem to control myself. Vinny’s my ten p.m. handful of chocolate chips after a full day of dieting.

Slowly, I open the lid.

Sitting on top of the pile of memorabilia is the sugar buns recipe I stole from cooking class. Below that, a note in Vinny’s messy teenage handwriting, passed in class just for fun: You’re pretty. An old photo-booth strip. A pink sticky note he left on my car window last year when I couldn’t make it to a game night because I was sick: Missed you last night, Emma! Feel better soon. A cut-down, dried rose from the bouquet he gave me when my grandma died. A green pen that says Tuesday because he remembered that, in my mind, Tuesdays are green.

Nothing significant. But everything special.

We’re five days away from his wedding. I should probably get rid of all these saved mementos. Why am I keeping all of it anyway?