"Who's the one that got away?" (Abbie's answer)

"You know what would shift the subject?" asked Jake.

"What's that?"

"You telling your story. Unless it's about a mysterious nameless girl who told you the world was imaginary at a frat party ten years ago ... unless it's that, then I want to hear your story."

Abbie wiggled smugly in her seat. "Okay, I guess I'll keep my nameless frat girls to myself."

"Oh fuck, Abbie, if you actually have nameless frat girl stories, there's always time for those."

Abbie pushed Jake's arm a bit. "Even if I did ... and who knows? ... they're not for right now." She stopped to look out the window a bit. "Let's see ... the one that got away? Gosh ..." She trailed off.

"Are you going to tell me that no one gets away from Abbie Andrews?"

Abbie snickered. "Not if they want to live to see tomorrow. You know that by now, Jake Lewis."

Jake nodded. "Truth."

"Okay, so this is a story in two chapters. Chapter one takes place almost twenty years ago. I was in kindergarten. I went to a Montessori school, very small, great place. I think. I was five, so what do I know?"

"Probably better than the garbage public school I went to," muttered Jake.

"Yup, probably. Anyway, just before Christmas, all the kids were making crafts, like cards for their parents, covered in snowflakes and glitter and stuff. This one boy, Kenny Sandberg, he came over to my desk and put a piece of paper down and then quickly ran away. I didn't really see that it was Kenny, I just know because I know the end of the story. But in the moment, I had no idea."

"And you remember all of this so clearly from when you were five?"

Abbie sneered. "Probably not. But my parents have reminded me of the story, and other reasons. Anyway. I see this extra piece of paper on my little desk, and I don't know what it is. So I pick it up and look at it, and it has a big tuft of cotton glued to one side, and on the other side in pink marker, it says 'hello Abbie, be my cross mess.'"

"What's a cross mess?"

"Well, in the moment, I had no idea, of course. I could read, but when I read it out loud, I didn't understand. So I had to ask the teacher, Mrs. Snow. And Mrs. Snow said she didn't know either. And then she asked me where the paper came from, and I didn't know that either."

"Oh, I'm starting to feel bad for Kenny Sandberg."

"Yeah. Well, Mrs. Snow wasn't one to let anything go without getting to the bottom of it. So she goes to the different desks, and asks if anyone left some of their artwork at my desk. And when she gets to Kenny Sandberg, she asks him, and he starts to cry. I turned and saw him, we all turned and saw him. And he was just melting. Oh, poor kid. My heart still breaks for him, just picturing that. And I don't really know if I'm picturing it, or if I've just made up a memory by thinking about it enough."

"Ask my girl from the soccer field."

"Right! Well, needless to say, Mrs. Snow now knows who left the paper. She sees another paper on Kenny's desk where, in the same pink marker, he's tried to write the word 'Christmas,' but he has no idea how to spell it. But he was testing out different ways, presumably as practice for the card he wrote to me. So what he wrote to me was 'hello Abbie, be my Christmas.' Which, I have to say, is the absolute most adorable thing ever."

"Be my Christmas? What does that even mean?"

"Oh Jake, you have zero romance in you. It's like Be My Valentine, but for Christmas. Or something like that. We were five!"

"Okay, okay."

Abbie took a breath and continued. "I didn't know what to do. Kenny was crying and hiding in the bathroom. Mrs. Snow was embarrassed for having upset Kenny. And she had kind of forgotten about me, and I didn't know what to make of the moment. I didn't really know Kenny Sandberg. We never had play dates or anything. I don't really remember it all, but I have to think that at the time, I didn't understand why a boy I barely knew was leaving a card on my desk."

"And you broke his heart. Poor kid."

"I didn't mean to!" Abbie was very defensive, but with a smile. "We were cleaning up the crafts and Kenny was still hiding. And then we moved onto another activity, probably feeding a frog or taking a nap or something. And by the time we got to the end of the day, I don't think I was really looking to figure things out with Kenny."

Jake looked over at Abbie. "And he's the one that got away?"

"Well, the story isn't over. That card wound up in my little backpack, and when I got home, my parents saw it and asked me about it. So I explained what I had seen, and they told me they thought it was probably that Kenny Sandberg liked me, so he wanted to give me a present. My parents have since retold this story to me many times, and it's evolved a bit, so I don't quite know what's real. But I think my takeaway was that if Kenny Sandberg liked me, he should have just asked me to play on the playground or sit with me at snack. You know me, Jake, I would have said yes."

Jake nodded. "You would have."

"But Kenny never asked. In fact, he didn't talk to me at school at all. And I forgot about the card. The next year, for first grade, Kenny Sandberg wasn't at that school anymore."

"You said there were two chapters to this story?"

"I did." Abbie nodded. "Chapter two takes place about seven years ago. My senior year of high school. I took violin lessons for a while, not at school, though, it was a private teacher. He had a studio in town, and kids from a bunch of different schools all took lessons with him. And every spring, there'd be a recital. It was in a church somewhere. We'd all go up to the front one by one and play our violin pieces, sometimes with piano accompaniment, and then get a certificate or something."

"Do you still play the violin?"

"Not anymore. And I was never very good. Anyway, the last recital I did was in the spring of my senior year of high school. I drove to the church by myself. I didn't really want my parents to come. I just wanted to do the recital and then quit violin lessons. I was frustrated that I wasn't any better. Maybe with a different teacher I could have done more, but old Mr. Hanson --"

Jake interrupted. "Please tell me that this isn't a sex story with old Mr. Hanson."

"It's not. Hush." Abbie waved her hand at him. "So it's time, and I'm sitting in the front row, waiting my turn. I'm like the sixth to go out of maybe ten. I get up, I play my terrible piece, some Mozart thing, I think. I start playing, and I get distracted watching the other kids and their families in the first few rows of the church. I hadn't seen them before because I was sitting in the front. But suddenly, I feel very **** and nervous. As I'm playing -- and I'm making mistakes and forgetting parts of it -- but as I'm playing, my eyes are darting around the room. I don't really recognize anyone. I don't think anyone from my school was in this studio. And then in the third row, I see a young man who looks weirdly familiar, though I have no recollection of where I know him from."

Jake smiled, enjoying the story.

Abbie continued. "I finished my piece, took my bow, and sat down again. But now my back was to the room, and all I could think about was, where do I know that guy from?" She stopped and looked around a bit, as if trying to well up the memory of the boy from the church. "He was the last one to perform in the recital. He got up, and before he started, he did what we all did -- announce his name and the name of his piece. He opened his mouth, and a very low voice came out and said, 'Hello, I'm Ken Sandberg.' My heart kind of exploded, and I know I burst out with a huge smile. It must have shown big, because the moment I reacted, he looked straight at me, and suddenly he couldn't remember the name of his piece. So he tried again. 'Hello, I'm Ken Sandberg, and ...' and he stumbled again. Finally old Mr. Hanson yelled out from the piano, 'It's Viotti. Let's go.'"

"Charming fellow, old Mr. Hanson."

"Yup." Abbie laughed at the memory. "Mr. Hanson started to play piano, and soon this tall dark-haired boy with glasses and a deep voice began to play. I just stared at him. He played so well. He was way better than this crappy little studio of Mr. Hanson's. I mean, at least way better than I was. He played this Viotti piece that was basically a professional quality performance. Better even than Mr. Hanson on the piano. He played, and I felt like I was all alone in the front row, that no one else was even in the room, and that he was playing for me. Kenny Sandberg was giving me a private concert. I was smiling like a fool, my eyes glazing over as I watched him."

"He was that gorgeous?"

"No!" Abbie relaxed. "I mean, no. He wasn't particularly gorgeous or anything. But he played beautifully. And I did like his low voice. So I don't know. I remembered the card from kindergarten. I remembered the list of ways he tried to figure out how to spell Christmas. It was so sweet how he wanted to make a connection with me, and so sad that he never did. And then here he was, eight feet in front of me, playing the most beautiful music. I've sometimes gone to Spotify or whatever to listen to Viotti, hoping I might find whatever he played, but I've never found it -- or if I have, then maybe I just don't remember the tune or something. I'm not a great musician."

"You're a great car DJ," offered Jake, remembering their drive to the hotel the day before.

"Yes, I can pick 'em, I just can't play 'em." Abbie laughed. "So Kenny Sandberg finished playing. He was the last to go. Mr. Hanson thanked everyone, and asked all ten of his students to come up to the front to take a bow together. We all got up there, and in my mind, I was imagining that he would stand next to me and maybe take my hand as we bowed."

"Did that happen?"

"No. He stood about four people away from me. And there was no hand holding." Abbie was dejected. "After the show was over, we all filed out of the church. I took a bit to collect my stuff, and ultimately, I was the last to leave the building. I looked around outside, and I saw Kenny heading down the street. I walked quickly, and then ran a little, trying to catch up. I called after him, and he stopped and turned. I caught up to him, and we just looked at each other, standing there on the sidewalk. 'Kenny Sandberg,' I said to him. He smiled. 'Abbie Andrews,' he said. We just stared for a minute, not knowing what else to say. Finally, I said, 'I don't know if you remember -- well maybe you do remember, since you remember my name, but ...' He said, 'The card. Be my cross mess.' I laughed and shifted my weight. 'Yes!' I said to him. It sent huge butterflies through my stomach when he remembered the story, when he said my name. But then I realized that we couldn't just have a conversation about a day from kindergarten when he cried and we never talked to each other. So instead, I told him that his playing was really beautiful. He told me the same, but I knew it wasn't true. I asked if he was graduating soon, and he said he was, and he was going to a music conservatory. I told him I didn't really know what I was doing next. Then I realized that an older couple waiting down the road a bit were his parents. They were at the car. Kenny said something about going to get pizza with his parents. He didn't invite me to join him, and I didn't ask. I told him it was nice to see him again after so many years. He smiled, turned, and walked away."

Jake smiled, and looked at Abbie. "You're still a little smitten with Kenny Sandberg, aren't you?"

Abbie blushed. "I am. So what?"

"So nothing," said Jake. "Are you kidding? It's really very sweet."

"He wanted me to be his cross mess. Come on!"

Jake laughed. "Did you ever see him again?"

Abbie shook her head. "No. I've looked up his name once or twice thinking I might see a concert listing or even a social media profile. But it's kind of a common name, and nothing notable ever comes up."

Jake sighed. "What could have been, you know?"

"It's crazy to think. What could have been!"