"Yes, it's time." Annie says.

"You're right. Sorry," Amy says.

"Don't be sorry. You didn't kill him," Holly says, deadpan.

"Holly. That's a terrible thing to say," Annie says.

"Just trying to lighten the mood a bit."

Annie starts scooping mashed potatoes out of a large aluminum tray and into a serving bowl. "Holly, can you get me a serving spoon out of that drawer behind you?"

"Why are we women-folk stuck here in the kitchen?" Holly asks, grabbing a spoon and handing it to Annie. "Shouldn't we be beyond this by now?"

"Yes, we're so oppressed," Amy says, sarcastically.

"Right," Annie says. "And I've been slaving over this fully catered dinner all day."

"Yeah, but, still, we're all in here, and all the men are out there."

"Not all of us," Amy says. "Wendy's still out there."

"Besides, if it bothers you so much, go out there and send Eric in to help. He'll get more done than you anyway."

"But I don't want to be out there with them."

"Then that's why you're in here with us," Annie says.

"I guess it does give me an excuse to sneak more wine," Holly says.

"Speaking of wine," Eric says, moving into the kitchen. "I need a gla.s.s for Tim and Wendy. I could use a refill myself."

"How many gla.s.ses have you had?" Annie asks, sure he's already drank two.

"Not anymore than you've had, I'm sure," he says, pouring the wine. "Besides, it's a tough crowd out there."

"What do you mean?" Holly asks.

"Well, since you dropped the Tim bomb on the party, Michael has been downright mute, and, frankly, Tim doesn't seem like much of a conversationalist either. Though, to be fair, it probably hasn't helped that Michael has been glaring at him for the past five minutes."

"Oh, G.o.d," Holly says, "Should I go out there?"

"I wouldn't if I were you," Eric says.

"Good."

"And I've been stuck trying to talk to Wendy about my old jazz records."

"But Wendy doesn't know anything about jazz," Amy says.

"Right. See what I'm dealing with out there," he says. "How much longer before we eat, you think?"

"I don't know. Soon," Annie says. "When's Max going to be here?"

"Max?" Holly asks. "Max is coming."

"Who's Max?" Amy asks.

"Max is my brother."

"I didn't know you had a brother," Amy says.

"I haven't, really, for the better part of a decade."

"When's he going to be here?" Annie asks, clearly trying to end any further inquiries about Max.

"Any second, I guess. I don't know," he says, and looks at his watch. "He's late already."

"Well, how much longer do you think we should give him?"

"A few more minutes."

"Okay, well, we're going to start taking stuff to the table," Annie says.

"Need any help?" Eric asks.

"No, we got this."

Eric grabs the three gla.s.ses of wine and leaves the kitchen.

"Max is coming, really?" Holly asks. "And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't want to talk about it."

"What's the big deal?" Amy asks.

"Max and Annie went to high school together, and they used to bea""

"Holly. Don't. I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine, but I can't believe you were giving me a hard time about things being awkward with Michael when Max is going to be here. Talk about awkward."

"I know."

"And you haven't seen him at all since he's been back?"

"No, buta I thought I said I didn't want to talk about this."

"Fine, buta""

"Should I be worried about tonight?" Amy asks. "There seems to be a lot of sticky subtext at this dinner."

"But subtext is what makes a dinner party interesting," Holly says. "Just be happy you're not one of the players. You can just sit back and enjoy the show."

"There's not going to be any show," Annie says, trying to a.s.sure Amy. "Now, can you guys help me take this stuff out to the table?"

The car is running. Max is huddled inside, arms crossed over his body, trying to stay warm. The heater in his dad's car seems broken. He's had the blower on high the whole time, but the car barely seems any warmer than it was when he first got in at his parents' house down the road. So, he's been sitting in the cold, staring up the hill at Eric and Annie's house for the better part of ten minutes.

He stares at their house, or what he can see of it from this distance, and thinks about how strange it is to think that they live there together. And the idea of seeing them together, facing them as a couple after all this time, is more daunting than it was when Eric first asked him to dinner. And he's no closer to climbing the hill now than he was ten minutes ago. Or ten years ago for that matter.

When Eric asked him over, he thought he could do it. He thought he was ready. And, in the moment, he had every intention of going to their house, seeing them, trying to let all those old feelings go. Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't have a ready excuse to refuse Eric's invitation. He and Stacy were scheduled to fly out this evening, and he certainly wouldn't have accepted if he didn't think he was ready, if he didn't think it was important for him to finally see them together. But it wasn't until after he explained to Stacy that he was staying an extra daya"an innocuous explanation, withholding any relevant dramatic and historical detailsa"and sent her off alone in their rental car to the airport, that he was faced with the stark reality of seeing them again.

But it wasn't the prospect of seeing them together that gave him pause. It was the thought of seeing her again that really had him in knots.

When he knew he was coming back home, and seeing her was only a possibility and not a foregone conclusion, it was endurable. Barely, but still. Now, though, knowing that she's there, in that house atop the hill, only a couple hundred feet away, he can hardly stand it.

He thought this was the time to come home and face what he'd spent the past ten years avoiding. It was time to put all his anger and resentment behind him. If anything, he'd let too much time pa.s.s since he'd been back. He believed that ten years was plenty long enough to learn to forgive Eric, to forgive Annie. And, even if he hadn't quite forgiven them, it was time for him to make them believe that he had forgiven them.

But once he was here, his mere proximity to her woke up all those slumbering emotions. Not as if they were ever completely gone. He'd clearly never forgotten his love for her, never let it stray too far from his thoughts. Really, she's lived with him like some wonderful disease over the past decade, and she's kept him beautifully in ruins. And, though he could've tried harder to rid himself of her, he's never quite wanted to let her go.

He's spent the better part of the last decade feebly trying to suppress her from his memorya"through work and other womena"but he's always pulled her back to him whenever he's needed her. She's always been his touchstone when he needed something true to believe in again. Too often, he's unfolded memories of her during periods of emotional turmoil. He seems to have built some mythology about her in his mind, a mythology that keeps some vital light alive inside him.

But he believed he'd gotten to a point, had been far enough from her for long enough, that at least he could pretend that he was over her. After all, he'd gotten so good at pretending over the years, pretending that he wasn't starving for her.

But, as he travelled from the airport with Stacy, he found himself taking the long way to his parents' house, pa.s.sing all the places he and Annie used to go, all the places that still hold the memories he has of her: their high school, the art house movie theater where they spent so many evenings, the lake where they first made love.

Of course, this drive through he and Annie's past was done under the guise of taking Stacy on a tour of his hometown, but he never quite antic.i.p.ated how much it would wake up inside him. If he had spent the past ten years fueling his love for her exclusively through what he could remember, then all the memories that were newly recovered by traveling through the landmarks of their past were only building a brighter torch.

He can't deny that there have been moments when he's wanted nothing more than to forget her. She's still the only woman he's ever truly loved. And it's not as if he hasn't tried to move on. He's been with his fair share of women since Annie, but none of them could hold a candle to her. Perhaps, she's created an unfair metric in his personal history for any other woman to hope to reach.

But, then again, when Eric asked him to come for dinner, he thought this could be his opportunity to see that she's not all that he remembers her to be. No doubt she's changed since the last time he saw her, the spring before she graduated college.

Maybe she's let herself go. Maybe time has made her more cynical, taken some of that light from her face. Maybe the cruel realities of adulthood have beaten her spirit, weakened her old joy of life. She is, after all, living in their old hometown, teaching piano to kids. This certainly is not what she hoped for herself when they were still young and idealistic.

Not that he hopes for her to be unhappy.

In fact, it could be that, if she were unhappy, he may feel compelled to want to rescue her. And he can't afford to find that kind of hope.

Not that he pines for something to happen now. He only pines for what used to be. And that's gone now.

Unlessa What if she's still the same? What if she still looks the same? Like his Annie? The Annie he remembers? The Annie he still loves.

When Annie and Max were together in high school, Eric was long gone at university. In fact, Annie only remembers meeting him once or twice at Max's family's holiday get-togethers, and she can hardly remember if they ever even spoke to one another. She probably did have words with him, but, back then, there didn't seem to be another man alive other than Max.

They became friends at the beginning of their junior year, and it was apparent immediately that they were romantically interested in one another. And once they started dating, they were inseparable. They spent every available second with each other, only separating at nights, and even then only because they had to abide by certain social and parental perimeters. Their lives revolved so closely around the other's that they found they had very little time or interest in maintaining their other relationships, and, consequently, they let many friendships dwindle away. But they never tired of one another's company, and they honestly never felt they needed for anything when they were together.

And this immersion in one another continued through their junior and senior years. They grew together, matured together. And they were never naive about the tension between their youth and what that could mean for their relationship's longevity. Many young love affairs have been cut short by attempts at a long distance relationship, and they knew the odds were against them. In order to prevent this from happening to them, they prepared their futures with the health of their relationship at the forefront of their planning. When it came time to apply to colleges, they had decided they would apply to all the same schools, and agreed to only attend one where they were both accepted.

But Annie was a musician. She'd been playing piano just about as long as she could sit upright on the bench. Music was the language she knew almost before she spoke English. Her mother was a proficient player, and taught piano part-time from their home. So, either by playing the piano on her own, or hearing the piano played by others, it became the primary soundtrack to Annie's life. And thinking of going to a liberal arts university, and not a college specifically built around music, made her worry that she might be selling her future short somehow. It was simply a part of her life she couldn't ignore.

So, as a long shot, she applied to the Berklee College of Music in Boston. She didn't tell Max, which was strange and difficult for her. She'd kept nothing from him up to that pointa" every doubt, every feeling was openly expressed between them. That's one of the reasons their relationship was so special, anda"she would learn latera"unlike any relationship she would ever experience again.

Eventually, Max and Annie learned they were both accepted to Stanford. They were ecstatic. They were going to be able to escape the east coast for the west, and they were going to be able to do it together, and at one of the elite schools in the country.

She hadn't heard from the Berklee College of Music by then and had pretty much given up on the whole idea. In her mind, at least she'd given it a shot, and she would never regret having given it a try. But, a few days after her and Max heard about Stanford, she received a letter inviting her to audition in Boston. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and one her mother let her know she simply couldn't pa.s.s up.

Her mother was not the kind of parent who pushed her child toward her own life's dream. She wasn't that selfish. Sure, her mom played the piano with her as a child, but it was something they did together, and something Annie gravitated to on her own, something she genuinely enjoyed. Some of her fondest memories from childhood are of sitting at the piano, learning to play, and the joy of playing something true. She's always appreciated the time her mom spent with her at the piano, and having been able to share this deep love of music with her mom was a gift she never took for granted. But her mom was not the happiest person, and she certainly had regrets, wished she'd lived a more exciting youth, and she certainly did not want to see her daughter carry similar regrets.

Annie's mom met her dad when they were both undergraduates, and her mother had dropped out after she became pregnant with Annie. So, her mom could not help but let her own life's regrets inform her att.i.tude toward Max and Annie's relationship. She never kept a secret of the fact that, though she loved Max, and thought he was good for Annie, she also believed they were much too young to be so serious.

But they were serious, and love has never been discriminate of age.

Still, Annie started spending less time with Max as she began to practice for her audition, and it was hurting her every bit as much as it was confusing him. She still hadn't told him about Berklee. There was no guarantee that she would get in, and why put him through the anxiety of something that wasn't yet a certainty? But he couldn't understand why she was so busy all of a sudden, and her excuses for avoiding him were thin and shifty with contrivances. Her new distance was clearly hurting him, and she felt trapped between the dishonesty of hiding her audition and the deeper hurt the truth could cause him.

But she swears that the heartbreak of being away from him built up a deeper desire in her work, and her pa.s.sion poured from her fingers into the music. Her performance grew more dramatic and expansive over those weeks of practice, and her confidence grew into the pleasure of her playing. She'd never really reached that level of transcendence while playing in the past, and now it was common for her to play, suddenly look up from the keys feeling a buzz, and realize she had finished a piece hardly cognizant of the work it took to play it. Though she was trying hard to ignore what might happen if she were accepted to Berklee, she began to feel more confident about her prospects.

But she didn't know if she'd have the strength to say goodbye to Max. The mere idea of it was unthinkable. Really.

So, she just didn't think about it.

The day of the audition she knew she could play like she had nothing to lose. If she were accepted to Berklee, then Max would have to go to Stanford on his own. If she were denied admission, then she'd move to Stanford with Max and things would be exactly the way she thought they'd be only a few months earlier.

But, as she played, her thoughts, and her fingers, were completely free of anxiety, lightly tripping over the keys with a fragile certainty. Max was in her mind, as he always was in those days, and it gave her playing that same pa.s.sion she had tapped into during her weeks of practice. She still believes that any lack of ability she may have exhibited that day was compensated by this impa.s.sioned performance. After she finished, and stood up beside the piano, her body was buzzing with the elation of nearing perfection, and when she looked at the representatives from Berklee, she could see that they felt it too. She knew then that she would be accepted. At that moment the acceptance letter was simply a formality.

Still, she had decided not to tell Max, or, rather, her fear, her utter denial of the reality of the situation, had decided for her. And, anyway, she knew Max well enough to know that it would destroy him, and that he would react to the news with fury.

There was rarely an ounce of rationality in Max when he was confronted with unpleasant news, particularly when the news fell outside his control. Usually, it was Annie who would talk him down from these outbursts, but this time she would be the cause of the bad news. Of course, his outbursts were never manifest in a physical way. Max was too civilized to react with violence, or even threats of violence. But he wouldn't hesitate to destroy someone with his words, or, worse, with his eyes. No one Annie had ever known, then, or to this day, could do more to communicate with their eyes than Max. No one could say more about their hurt, their anger, or their pa.s.sionate love than Max could with a simple look. His eyes often spoke more clearly than he did.

Weeks went by, and since her practice time had calmed after the audition, Annie and Max fell easily into their old habits. They were inseparable again. She listened with polite attention as he talked about all the things they would do once they were in California. And she did her best to listen to him talk about these things, and to never lie about her intentions, usually by changing the subject, or dancing around specifics altogether.

But, eventually, she knew she was going to have to tell him the truth.

Max and Anniea"mostly Maxa"had been planning a cross-country drive to California after graduation. He was hoping to spend some time in Stanford, get a feel for the campus, and learn the community where they would be spending the next four years of their lives. At first, she thought she would go along with him on the trip, tell him at a point when things were quiet, reflective, and the time seemed right. But she understood that she was just putting off the inevitable, and that it was only right for her to tell him before the trip.

So, on the eve of their trip, she sat in her childhood bedroom and told the man she hoped she'd spend her life with, the man that she loved so much that it was unbearable to think of spending any real time away from him, that she was going to school in Boston, and that he would be going to school in California without her.

She had planned everything she would say beforehand, but, as she spoke, all those neatly organized thoughts fell apart like sand, and she clumsily explained herself through tears. He listened to everything she said, but the look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. There was a hurt that stirred in him so large, a pain that flashed with bursts of visible anger. And she knew that things between them would never be the same.

But he heard her out. He didn't speak a word as she told him about Berklee, about how she never thought she'd be accepted, and how she knew she'd never forgive herself if she didn't take the opportunity. She told him how sorry she was for deceiving him, and that she would still like to go on their cross country trip, that this didn't mean that their relationship would end, and that she believed that their love was strong enough to endure the distance. And, when she was done, he silently got up from her bed, and without a word or another look in her direction, he left her room and her house.

She tried to call him that night, but he never went back home. He must have already had his bags packed and loaded in his car because, after he left her, he started driving cross-country to California alone.

And once he got to Stanford, he didn't come back.

It was nearly six months before she heard from him again.

By the time Max did finally get in touch with Annie, they were both busy with their new lives at school, and there was a long period of adjusting their behavior to the new distance between them. It wasn't just the obvious physical distance they were adjusting to, but an emotional distance that had been built over the past six months. Max still felt that Annie had betrayed him, their future, their love. She'd lied to him, and showed him that her ambition was stronger than her love.

And Annie was still shocked by his sudden disappearance, how he so quickly abandoned her at a point when she was so clearly vulnerable. And, even if they were to be separated in the fall, they could've still had that summer together. Instead, she was stuck facing that cruelest of summers, heartbreakingly alone.