How to End a Love Story(38)

Helen nods, staring at his old table as if she can see their past lunching selves. He sits down on “her” table, his legs swinging off the edge. “Nice view from this table.”

“I liked having a window so close,” she says.

“Colder in the winter, though,” he notes.

She shrugs. “I usually wasn’t here this late in December. Where do you wanna see next?”

He votes for their junior-year English classroom, but the door is locked and they can only peer through the window in the door.

“I don’t recognize any of these teachers’ names,” Helen says as they walk down the English wing. “I guess all of our teachers retired.”

“Did you keep in touch with any of them?”

“No. I should have,” she says. “I heard my favorite teacher, Mr. Choi, the faculty rep for the Ampersand, he died a few years back. Right before I published my first book.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it.

She tries a door at random and it opens—it’s a closet-room full of old, dusty books. School-edition hardcovers of classics like Great Expectations and Shakespeare’s Tragedies and Norton’s Anthology compendiums of the American literary canon—there are piles of books so high, they tower over Helen.

“Jackpot,” she whispers, and walks in. She opens one book and laughs, then tosses it at him. “First page.”

He opens it and sees the register of the names of students who once held this particular copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Sandwiched between students from the classes of ’07 and ’09 is Lauren DiSantos in a cramped cursive scrawl.

He laughs and thinks about taking a picture to send to Lauren. But would that be weird?

“I don’t even remember which ones we read which year,” he says instead, setting the book down.

“We did Shakespeare senior year,” she says, picking through the books. “Austen and Bront? sophomore year. And I don’t remember the rest. I wanna see if I can find my Wuthering Heights. If I do, I’m taking it.”

He opens a copy of Wuthering Heights, scanning for familiar names. A few names tickle the back of his memory, but nothing solid. He opens another, and a name stares back at him in bold Sharpie.

“Here,” he says thickly, tapping it.

“You found it?”

She moves over, then stops when she sees the name he’s pointing at. Michelle Zhang, ’10.

“Oh.”

“You want it?” he asks, trying to keep his voice low and neutral.

Helen touches her sister’s name.

“No,” she says finally. “It’s better off here, living its life, educating high school students.” She laughs ruefully. “That probably sounds insane.”

“No,” he says. “That makes perfect sense.”

She smiles at him in gratitude, and he swallows hard. “What now?”

“Where did you spend the most time when we were here?” she asks.

He thinks, then jerks his head outside. “Football practice. But it’s pretty cold. I guess when it was winter, we’d do some drills in the north gym.”

“Okay,” she says, and he leads the way.



Walking through the empty halls of their old public high school feels like walking into a memory. She trails her fingertips along the solid walls to reassure herself they’re real. There’s a strange, dreamlike quality to the day, and if she could, she’d reach out her fingers and touch Grant to check if he was real too.

“That was my favorite mirror,” she says, pointing at a mirror on one of the hallway intersections on their way to the gym. “I always checked my hair and clothes in it on the way to class.”

The first door to the gym is locked too, but as Grant tries the other door, Helen spots something that makes her shout in delight.

“Look at you!” she exclaims, and points up at a dusty, framed photo on the wall by the trophy case. Dunollie Warriors Varsity Football Team, 2007–2008 Season.

Grant walks up and he’s beside her before she realizes it.

“Huh,” he says, staring up at the team photo.

Helen turns to watch Grant studying the photo. “It must be weird to see yourself become a part of the background scenery here,” she says. “I remember walking past these photos all the time and not really seeing them. And here you are.”

“Weird,” he echoes.

Helen takes out her phone and snaps a photo of the framed picture.

“I’m sending this to the room,” she says. “Merry Christmas, one and all.”

“Wait, no, that’s not fair,” Grant says, and grabs for her phone. “Not unless there’s one of you and the newspaper club dorks around here somewhere.”

Helen acts on instinct and hides the phone under her sweater, out of reach. “They didn’t appreciate our accomplishments as much as yours. You’re lucky to be immortalized on the walls of our school!”

Grant laughs and seizes her by the shoulders from behind.

“Give it to me,” he says, his voice a low growl in her ear.

He has one arm looped across her chest, trapping her against his body. A strange thrill shoots up her back, and she feels him swallow hard.

“Oy!”