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But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

“I gotta go,” I said.

“Where?” she asked. “Where do you have to go?”

“I don't know,” I replied. “But I don't have to stay here.”

And by that, I didn't just mean in front of Sara, outside J.Crew. I didn't have to stay in Pineville, or my parents' house, for that matter. Neither was my home anymore. I'm not sure I can call New York home, either, but it certainly seemed more appealing. Besides, my room and board was paid for—I might as well maximize money already spent.

Still, I wasn't totally convinced until I got home. That's when I saw the postcard on top of the pile of mail on the kitchen table. My mother was not pleased.

“I thought you two were over,” she said.

“We are,” I said in a near whisper. “We are.”

“Then why is he still sending you mail?” she asked.

“I don't know,” I replied.

“And what is this supposed to mean, anyway?” she said, handing it over.

I looked up at my mother. Her face was frozen into a middle-aged mask of a woman I didn't recognize.

“Jessie?”

I didn't even look at the picture, focusing instead on the message. The final word. The one that will put an end to this madness. As I requested.

And that's when I knew for sure I had to get out of Pineville.

* * *

December 31st

Dear Marcus,

“RIGHT.”

You must have sent today's postcard immediately, in response to my letter.

I WISH OUR LOVE WAS RIGHT.

But it wasn't. Our LOVE was all wrong.

Or maybe, according to the wisdom of Barry Manilow:

“We had the right love at the wrong time . . .”

Barry Manilow was crooning these very words as I held this final postcard in my hands. As I'm sure you remember, Barry Manilow was on the Cadillac 8-track the night of our first and infamous lip nip so many years ago. Barry Manilow drifted through the ceiling at Silver Meadows when you consoled me about my breakup with Len, which made possible everything that followed, including today. Barry Manilow poured out of the tent when we bumped into Sierra, a flesh-and-blood notch in your bedpost, and I realized that your promiscuous past troubled me after all.

What does this all mean?

According to Jung, synchronicity is an unpredictable moment of meaningful coincidence. More than that, he believed it to be a paranormal phenomenon that reveals the miraculous connections between the subjective and objective worlds:

“A dream dance, a sleep trance, a shared romance . . .”—The Police

Freud thought Jung was full of shit. (He would have thought Sting was, too.)

I'm siding with Freud. Humans find meaningfulness where none exists because we want to create a sense of order in this chaotic universe. It's called apophenia. (And it's also the reason people believe in God.) Barry Manilow sang in the background during four distinct Marcus Moments. But what about all the times he didn't? It's much easier to forget about those.

Of course, it was a nice touch, making sure I got it tonight, on New Year's Eve, a date that's been so significant for us. You did your research, too, sending it to my parents' new address, a house you've never seen, yet somehow known to you. This proves my point. Your postcard is too calculated to be the result of synchronistic Truth with a capital T.

And so, I'm refusing to read too much into the fact that of all the singers in all the world, it was Barry Manilow playing at the exact moment I read your final word. After all, Barry Manilow has always been the sound track my mom cleans the house to, which is admittedly rare these days since she has hired a service to do most of the dirty work. But it makes perfect sense that my mom was listening to Ultimate Manilow on New Year's Eve as she took the vacuum in her own manicured hands to remove every invisible dust mote in preparation for the first party in her new home.

Barry Manilow crooning about lost lovers meeting up again someday, somewhere down the road only proves that my mother has suck-ass taste in music. It does not provide adequate evidence of the oneness of the universe. It does not