Casey Mitchell's signature looked wrong on the divorce papers. Maybe because she'd practiced writing Casey Thompson so many times in high school. Now her maiden name felt like admitting defeat, each letter a tiny surrender. She stared at the blue ink until the letters blurred, remembering how she'd once decorated her notebooks with that name, certain it was her destiny.

"That's the last one," her lawyer said, gathering the documents with efficient movements. "I'll file these first thing Monday morning." Sandra Whitman had been her mother's best friend for twenty years, which made this whole process feel even more like a public failure. She peered at Casey over her reading glasses, concern etched in the fine lines around her eyes. "Are you sure you don't want me to have my courier deliver his copy? It's no trouble."

Casey stood, smoothing her pencil skirt with trembling fingers. The navy fabric felt too tight, too formal for what felt like a funeral for her marriage. "No, I'll drop them off at his place. We promised to keep things civil." What she didn't say was that she needed this final moment of closure, needed to see the door close on this chapter of her life one last time. How many "last times" had they had already? The last night in their house, the last shared holiday, the last attempt at counseling.

The late August heat hit her like a wall as she stepped out of the air-conditioned office building. Pine Grove's main street hadn't changed since she was a teenager—same diagonal parking spaces, same faded awnings, same nosy faces pretending not to watch her through shop windows. Mrs. Henderson actually pressed her face against the glass of her antique store, not even trying to be subtle. The same store where Drew had bought Casey her engagement ring, a delicate vintage piece that now sat in her jewelry box, too precious to return but too painful to wear.

She could practically hear the gossip telegraph firing up. Casey Mitchell, finally signing those divorce papers. Guess the golden couple wasn't so golden after all. That was the problem with being your small town's favorite love story—everyone felt entitled to the ending.

Her phone buzzed with a text from her mother: Did you do it?

Then another: Honey, come over for dinner. You shouldn't be alone tonight.

And another: I saw Drew at the grocery store yesterday. He looked thin.

Casey ignored them all, sliding into her car. The manila envelope seemed to mock her from the passenger seat where Drew used to sit, singing off-key to whatever country song was playing. She'd loved that about him once—how he'd never cared who saw him acting silly, how he'd use her hairbrush as a microphone on their long drives to college. When had they both gotten so serious? When had the weight of expectations—from their families, their careers, this town—started suffocating the joy out of them?

She meant to drive straight to his new apartment, the one she'd never seen. The one he'd moved into three months ago when they both finally admitted that their trial separation wasn't so much a trial anymore. Instead, she found herself turning onto Old Mill Road, muscle memory taking her to The Swimming Hole. It wasn't really a swimming hole anymore, just a wide bend in Carter Creek where local teens still parked to drink beer and make out. She and Drew had shared their first kiss here junior year, when she'd finally gotten tired of waiting for him to make a move and taken matters into her own hands.

The memory was still vivid: her gathering every ounce of sixteen-year-old courage, his wide-eyed surprise melting into eagerness, both of them bumping noses before finding the right angle. They'd been so young, so sure that wanting something badly enough meant you got to keep it.

The gravel crunched under her tires as she pulled into the familiar clearing. And there, because the universe had a sick sense of humor, was Drew's black pickup truck. Not the same one from high school—this one was newer, cleaner, a symbol of his success at the construction company where he'd worked his way up from summer jobs to project manager. But it was still undeniably a piece of him, as familiar as her own reflection.

He sat on the tailgate, still in his work clothes minus the tie, looking exactly like the boy she'd fallen in love with and nothing like him at all. Ten years had added strength to his jaw, confidence to his shoulders. The setting sun caught the faint threads of silver starting at his temples—too much stress, too young. His sleeves were rolled up, showing forearms tanned from job site visits, and she had to fight the muscle memory that wanted to trace the faint scar on his left wrist, the one he'd gotten helping her father re-shingle their roof the summer before their wedding.

Their eyes met through her windshield. For a moment, she considered throwing the car in reverse, but that would be cowardly. They'd promised to be adults about this. She grabbed the envelope and got out, her heels sinking slightly into the soft ground. A breeze carried the scent of wild honeysuckle—the same smell that had always meant summer and freedom and possibility.

"Great minds," he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. Those eyes had always given him away, even when he was trying to be strong. Right now they held a storm of emotions she wasn't ready to name.

"Or tragic timing." She held up the envelope, hating how her hand shook slightly. "I was bringing these by."

"Figured it was something like that. Mom said she saw you heading to Sandra's office." He patted the tailgate beside him. "Want a drink? For old times' sake?"

She should say no. Should hand him the papers and walk away. Should protect what was left of her heart from those green eyes and the memories they held. Instead, she found herself hoisting herself up beside him, accepting the beer he pulled from a small cooler. "You just happen to keep beer in your truck these days?"

"Nah. Came prepared when I saw your car downtown." He twisted off the cap and handed her the bottle. Their fingers brushed, and she ignored the familiar spark. "Seemed like that kind of day."

They sat in silence for a while, watching the sun sink behind the trees. Cricket song filled the air, mixing with the distant rush of the creek. A pair of cardinals chased each other through the deepening shadows—she'd always thought of them as their birds, after the pair that had nested outside their first apartment window. It was so familiar it hurt.

"You remember—" they both started at the same time, then laughed. The sound echoed off the water, a ghost of easier days.

"Go ahead," she said, studying the label on her beer to avoid looking at him.

"You remember that time we snuck out here during homecoming? You in that blue dress, me in that awful rented tux?"

"The one with the ruffly shirt?" She smiled despite herself. "How could I forget? We spent half the night trying to get mud out of my dress before taking it back to the rental place."

"Worth it though." His voice went soft with memory. "You looked like something out of a dream that night. All sparkly and perfect, except for that mud on your hem. I think that's when I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That I was going to marry you someday. You were laughing about the mud instead of crying like other girls would have. You made everything an adventure."

The old Drew would have stumbled over words like that. This new one said them with quiet certainty, and something in her chest ached. When had he learned to say things like that? Where was this honesty when they were falling apart?

"Drew..." She set the beer down, the glass clinking against the truck bed. "We can't..."

"I know." He turned to face her, and she wished he wouldn't. Wished his eyes weren't still that impossible shade of green that had first made her stumble over her words in sophomore English. Wished he didn't still smell like sawdust and mint gum and home. "I know we can't. I just... seeing you here, looking like that..."

"Like what?"

"Like Casey. My Casey."

"I'm not yours anymore." The words came out whisper-soft, carried away by the evening breeze.

"I know that too." His hand came up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like he'd done a thousand times before. His fingers lingered at her jaw, callused but gentle. Always so gentle with her, even when they were hurting each other. "But you were. Once."

She knew she should move away. Knew every reason this was a bad idea. The divorce papers crinkled in her lap, a reality check she was choosing to ignore. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch, her body remembering what her mind was trying to forget.

"One last time," he murmured, his breath warm against her lips. "For closure."

It was a terrible idea. The worst idea. The kind of idea that had gotten them into trouble since they were teenagers stealing kisses between classes. But as his lips met hers, tasting of beer and memories and endings, Casey decided some mistakes were worth making twice.

His hands tangled in her hair, messing up the careful bun she'd worn for the lawyer's office. She didn't care. Couldn't care about anything but the solid warmth of him, the familiar way their bodies remembered how to fit together. He kissed her like he was dying of thirst, like he was memorizing her, like he was saying goodbye.

Or maybe more than goodbye, she thought later, as they rediscovered each other in the familiar bed of his truck, the stars wheeling overhead and tomorrow's regrets a distant concern. The envelope of divorce papers had fallen somewhere in the grass below, forgotten in the rush of skin on skin, of whispered names and broken promises.

One last time, they'd said. They'd been wrong about that before.

The moon was high when they finally untangled themselves, straightening clothes and avoiding eyes. Casey's hair had come completely undone, and her carefully applied lipstick was long gone. She could feel the ghost of his touch on her skin, knew it would haunt her for days.

"Casey," Drew started, his voice rough. "Maybe we should—"

"Don't." She held up a hand, stopping whatever he was about to say. "Please. Let's just... let's leave it here. A good memory for the end."

He nodded slowly, understanding in his eyes. They'd always been good at this part—the wordless communication, the natural rhythm of being together. It was the talking that had tripped them up, all the things left unsaid piling up like stones between them until they couldn't find their way across.

She gathered the scattered divorce papers, brushing off bits of grass and dirt. They were wrinkled now, like they'd aged years in these few hours. Rather fitting, really.

"Goodbye, Drew," she whispered, not looking back as she walked to her car. If she looked back, she might not leave. Might try one more time to fix what they'd broken.

But some things couldn't be fixed with kisses and memories. Sometimes goodbye really had to be goodbye.

She didn't cry until she was halfway home, and then only because she caught the scent of him still clinging to her skin. One last memory, one last touch, one last goodbye.

It would have to be enough.