Chapter 7

That night, I slept fitfully.

Benjamin haunted my dreams.

Memories of his past kindness played like a movie reel behind my eyelids.

A clap of thunder and my dad's angry voice woke me.

Wiping sweat from my face, I went out.

"Dad? What's wrong? Who upset you?"

He snorted, pointing out the window.

"Camped out front since dawn with a damn banner. Won't leave even in the rain. Thinks we'll feel sorry for him."

I pulled the curtain aside.

There was Benjamin, soaked to the bone, holding a hand-painted sign that read: "ELAINE, I'M SORRY. PLEASE FORGIVE ME. I'LL WAIT AS LONG AS IT TAKES."

My heart didn't move. My stomach did—but that was just nausea.

"How long has he been there?"

"Five hours." Dad crossed his arms. "Tried to bring your mother flowers. She threw them in the recycling."

"Good for Mom."

"Want me to call the cops?"

I looked at Benjamin one more time. The rain had smeared his banner. His dress shirt—the one I'd ironed for yesterday's ceremony—was plastered to his skin.

Once upon a time, this image would have broken me.

Now it just looked pathetic.

"Let him stand there. He'll leave when he's cold enough."

He didn't leave. Not that day, not the next.

By day three, the neighbors were complaining. His banner had grown to include photos of us from college, arranged in chronological order, with captions like "Eight years of love can't end like this."

Lisa texted me: "Girl, he's going VIRAL. People are calling him 'Banner Boy.' Half the internet thinks he's romantic. The other half thinks he's a stalker."

"Which half is right?"

"The stalker half. Obviously."

I blocked his number. He started writing letters. When I didn't read them, he slid them under the door.

My father collected them in a shoebox. Not to give to me—to submit as evidence for the restraining order.