Tonight the Streets Are Ours / Page 97

Page 97


I miss Lindsey every day. We don’t always make time to talk, we don’t have the same friends, and when Lindsey needs saving—which she has many times, and certainly will again—I’m not there to catch her. But when we do find each other, at home in Cumberland on holidays, or on the phone in those rare moments when Lindsey is resting and I’m awake, it’s as if nothing between us has changed.

I used to think that loving somebody meant sacrificing anything for them. I thought it meant writing a blank check. I thought it meant that you would die without each other. But it turns out that Peter was right about that, too: death and a broken heart are not the same.

These days I think that love is not so dramatic as all that. Maybe loving somebody means simply they bring out the best in you, and you bring out the best in them—so that together, you are always the best possible versions of yourselves.

You were promised a love story. And this is mine.