“Is that why you take pictures?” he asked.
I looked down at the camera where I cradled the captured image of Sam in my hands.
“Because when you take a picture, you can keep it forever?”
I hadn’t ever thought about it like that before, but Sam was right. There was something comforting about knowing that once I had taken a picture, it wasn’t going to change unless I changed it. I could keep it or delete it, but whatever I did with it, it was my decision. My choice. I was in control.
“So, I have a question for you,” he said.
“Yeah?” My thoughts were filled with an assortment of fractured images, pieces of puzzles that didn’t want to fit together.
“Which one are you?”
“Which one of what?” I asked, confused.
“Were you the one who left, or the one who was left behind?”
I swallowed hard, ignoring the rush of tears that threatened to surface.
The subway slowed and the automated voice announced that the next stop was Times Square. I stood up, my knees wobbling, and reached for the pole in the center of the floor. Adjusting my bag over my shoulder, I stared at the doors, willing them to open faster. I needed fresh air. I needed to be outside, up and away from the dark tunnels and the fake light and the questions that hurt to answer.
When the train slid to a stop, Sam stood up, placing his hand next to mine on the pole. “Sara?”
“I was left behind,” I said, fast and quiet. The words tasted strange, hard-edged and metallic. I doubted I had ever spoken them aloud before. The tears I had struggled to keep at bay spilled over and raced down my cheeks.
The doors split apart, and I bolted from the train.
Chapter 28
Sam
Sam’s bag bounced on his hip as he ran after her. She was quick, darting and dodging through the crowds like a pinball set loose from its track.
He knew how she felt. His own thoughts jumped from point to point, sometimes bouncing past, other times sliding away. The tags beneath his shirt chimed along with the metal rings and undone buckles on his bag. If he hadn’t been so focused on Sara, he might have paused to appreciate the music.
She pounded up the stairs, her camera swinging from the wrist strap.
“Sara!” he called out, but she didn’t stop.
Shoving past a couple walking hand in hand, he took the stairs two at a time. He reached out his hand but only brushed the trailing ends of her hair as she rounded the corner.
“Watch where you’re going!” a voice shouted, but Sam was already gone.
That was his problem, he realized. He never watched where he was going; he only paid attention to where he was right now. If he had been able to see even a few steps ahead, he would have noticed how quiet Sara had been on the train, how quickly she had grown introspective. Something heavy was weighing on her mind, but he had barged in and demanded to know her soul because that was what he was thinking about right now.
He was thinking about what he wanted. Not what she wanted. Not what she needed.
So much for being observant.
He emerged from the subway station and was immediately assaulted by the sights and sounds of Times Square.
There was a reason why he avoided the area as much as possible. Huge video screens lit up the night sky with a false dawn. Neon lights flickered in staccato accompaniment to the never-ending hum of conversation that filled the square. Cars inched their way through the narrow streets crammed with pedestrians.
For once, Sam was grateful for the countless tourists weighed down with shopping bags and maps and cameras: they had unwittingly created a wall that had stopped Sara’s flight. She stood on the corner, looking down both cross streets as though debating which way to go.
He grabbed her elbow and spun her around to face him. “Sara, what the—”
Tears streaked her face, and she brushed her free hand across her cheek.
“I can’t,” she choked out.
“Can’t what?”
She shook her head.
Sam kept his hand on her arm, partly because he didn’t want her to bolt again, and partly because he liked the feel of her skin beneath his fingers. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to not only stay in the moment but look forward just a little.
“Sara,” he said again, his voice soft despite the roar of the crowd around them, “why did you run?”
“Gotta keep moving, right?” she said with a lopsided smile.
“Not like that. Not when it’s dangerous.”
The crowds parted and flowed around them.
“I knew where I was going,” she said. The tears had dried on her face.
He raised an eyebrow and shifted his bag on his shoulder.
“I could have figured it out,” she muttered.
“Which way is north?”
Sara hesitated, then pointed in one direction. A moment later, she switched and pointed in another direction.
His smile was gentle. He reached out and took her wrist, swinging her arm to point in a third direction. “That’s north.”
She pulled her hand from his grasp. She shifted her weight, kicking her hip out, and blew her hair off her face. “So?”
“So . . . I don’t want you to get lost.”
“Now you sound like my dad.”
“Maybe your dad has a point.”
She scrunched up her face. “The only point he likes to make is that I’m not old enough to take care of myself.”
He touched her wrist. “Is that such a bad thing?”
A shadow darkened her green eyes.
“I just meant,” Sam hurried to explain, “is it so bad to have someone want to help take care of you? It can be nice to know that someone is in your corner, looking out for you. You don’t have to take care of yourself all by yourself.” His words stumbled to a stop. He wasn’t expressing himself very well, he could feel it. He tried to take back the words, turn them into something else. “Back there”—he jerked his head toward the bustling and brightly lit subway station—“you said you had been left behind. I don’t know that story—I don’t expect you to tell me that story—but I know how that feels. I know that when I first saw you today, I recognized something about you. I thought then that we might have something in common. And I know now that we do. We’re a lot alike, you and I.” He took a breath. “You haven’t been abandoned. Someone still cares about you—your dad. Even if it doesn’t always seem like it.” His hand slipped from her wrist to her fingers. “You’re not alone.”
The shadows in her face softened along with the corners of her mouth. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t withdraw.
She held his gaze for a long time. “You’re not alone either,” she said, her voice almost lost in the swirl of noise and lights. “Paul cares about you. And your parents. And . . . I—”
Someone bumped into Sam from behind, jostling him forward. His hands flashed to Sara’s shoulders to keep himself steady. He felt an electric zing pass through her and into him. His cheeks burned, but he didn’t mind the heat.
“Sorry,” he managed, stumbling back. He lowered his hands to his sides, but they felt oddly heavy there. Useless. He rubbed his thumbs against his thighs and then shoved his hands into his pockets.
Sara’s mouth moved, but a truck rumbled past, the horn blaring, so he missed her words. He thought she said “I’m not” but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t dare ask in case he was wrong.
He didn’t think he could survive making that kind of mistake again.
Chapter 29
Sara
I’m not, I said again in my head. I’m not sorry you put your hands on my shoulders. I’m not sorry you looked at me like you knew everything about me. I’m not sorry I took your picture this morning. I’m not sorry about today.
I wanted to let the words spill out of me, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to break whatever spell had been woven between me and Sam. I was afraid that if I said anything, did anything—if
I took a single step away from him—this connection we had would turn as thin as silk, as fragile as a whisper, and break.
“Sara!” I heard my name, but Sam’s mouth hadn’t moved. Strange.
His gaze jerked away from mine with an almost audible snap. He stared past my shoulder, his face sliding behind the same mask he’d worn when I’d first seen him outside the bookstore.
A hand grabbed my arm and spun me on my heel.
“Dad?” I squeaked.
He was mad. I hadn’t seen him this mad in years. Maybe not since the days before Mom left. His thinning brown hair was dark with sweat, stray strands standing up in all directions. His cheeks were flushed as though he had run a long distance. His green eyes—the same color as mine; everyone said so—were bright with emotion.
“I thought you said you were coming back right after dinner.” The veins in his neck bulged beneath the open collar of his button-down shirt. The muscles on his arms flexed. He’d rolled up his sleeves almost to his elbows. The sparkling lights caught the gold glint of his wristwatch.
“I was. I mean, I did,” I stammered. “We had to wait for the subway, and we were kind of far away—”
Dad’s eyes glared past me. “Who’s that?” he snapped.
I twisted around as much as I could without breaking free of my dad’s grip. He wasn’t going to let me go, and I knew better than to push my luck at the moment.
“That’s Sam,” I said. “He’s my friend. The one I was having dinner with.”
Sam nodded in a neutral greeting. “It’s nice to meet you.”
His body was tall and straight, but I saw the exact moment when he shifted his weight forward on his toes. He was ready to run.
Some of Dad’s anger faded when he saw how normal Sam looked. He drew in a shaking breath and ran his free hand over his head, messing up his hair even more.
“I told you I was okay,” I said to Dad. “You didn’t need to freak out about anything.”
He barked out a short laugh. “I’ve been walking around Times Square for almost an hour looking for you. I’ve been checking my phone every two minutes. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t think I needed to,” I snapped back. “I told you I was coming back. Why didn’t you believe me?”
“You’re seventeen years old, Sara. You’re too young to be out in the city alone.”
“You didn’t seem to care that you left me alone this afternoon.” I yanked my arm free from his hand and took a step back. “Besides, I wasn’t alone; I was with Sam.”
“It’s true, sir,” Sam said, his voice cool and professional. “I showed her some of the sights—St. John’s Cathedral, Central Park—and then she asked me to bring her back to Times Square.”
Dad relaxed a little more, reserving his irritation for me instead of Sam. “Thanks,” he grunted. “I’m sorry if she bothered you.”
“She wasn’t a bother,” Sam returned. He swallowed, then looked down at me. A flash of emotion appeared in his eyes. Regret? Relief? “I’ll see you around, Sara.” He shifted his weight again, his body pivoting away from me.
“No! Wait!” I shouted, lunging for Sam’s arm and not caring what anyone thought. My own thoughts had boiled down to this one truth: If Sam disappeared into the crowds right now, I would never see him again. I couldn’t let that happen.
“Sara!” My dad grabbed for me again, but I was already out of reach.
I latched onto Sam and he froze. His gaze darted between my hand on his arm and my eyes that stayed focused on his face. “Twenty minutes,” I pleaded with him. “Give me twenty minutes. Then I’ll be back.”
“You will not, young lady,” my dad said. “It’s late, and I don’t want you going out any more tonight with some boy you just met.” He thinned his lips and looked at Sam. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Sam said, lifting a shoulder coolly and straightening his bag across his chest.
I increased the pressure on Sam’s arm until he looked away from my dad and back to me. When I knew I had his attention again, I spoke quietly, fiercely. “I promised to fix things with Paul and Piper. We promised. I can’t walk away from that. Twenty minutes. I’ll meet you”—my eyes scanned the square—“outside the toy store.” I pointed at the huge multicolored sign that dominated the building’s storefront.
Sam followed my gaze. His face showed the most uncertainty I’d seen from him all day. “I don’t know. I—”
“I’ll trade you for it,” I blurted. “You give me twenty minutes, and I’ll give you the story. My story.”
“That’s enough,” Dad growled, closing the space between us and grabbing my arm again. He dragged me backwards, my feet tripping over themselves as I alternately tried to keep up with Dad and stay closer to Sam. “Good night, Sam,” Dad said, his voice the sound of a closing door. “And good-bye.”
I held Sam’s gaze for as long as I could, silently pleading for him to wait. And then the masses swept between us like a wave, and he was gone.
I found my footing and pulled my arm away. “Let go, Dad. I can walk by myself.”
He clamped his hand on my shoulder, steering me through the narrow pathways that opened and closed as the flow of people shifted and spun. We threaded our way toward a tall gray building plastered with signs and lights. Our hotel. Our home away from home.
The last thing I wanted to do was walk through the opulent lobby, ride the elevator to the nineteenth floor, and stay locked in my room until morning. I had things I needed to do tonight. Things that couldn’t wait.
But Dad was mad. Too mad to let me out of his sight again? Probably. I stumbled along next to him as he stomped his way forward. Change that probably to definitely.
We reached the glass doors of the lobby. “Dad,” I tried. “Dad—wait—”
He staggered to a stop just to the side of the revolving doors and faced me.
“What, Sara? What?”
That’s when I noticed that the rims around his eyes were red with tears and not anger. The high color in his cheeks hid pale spots of fear. He wasn’t mad; he was sad.
“I—” I started. All my frustration and anger drained away. Dad wasn’t a crier. Mom said he hadn’t cried at their wedding or at my birth. I’d seen for myself that Dad hadn’t cried when Mom had walked out on me. On us, I corrected in my head.
He sagged against the glass and rubbed his hand over his face. “What, Sara?” he asked again, this time in a tone of surrender. “What can I do? Tell me what you want me to do. Because I don’t know anymore. You say you want to spend time with me. You’re mad at me when I have to work all day—even when it’s important. But then when I do have time and even suggest celebrating together, you act like you can’t stand to be around me.”
“That’s not true—” My words lacked force. We both knew he was closer to being right than I was.
“I heard you say you wanted to meet that boy later. You’d rather spend time with a stranger than with your own father.”
I gritted my teeth, grinding the guilt into a thick paste that coated my tongue. I could barely get the words out. “His name is Sam. And he’s not a stranger.” Not anymore, I added to myself.
“What’s his last name?”
I blinked. “What?”
“His last name. If he’s not a stranger, then what’s his last name?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Casting my mind back over the day, I searched for the answer to Dad’s question, but I came up empty. Had Sam ever told me his full name? Had I told him mine?
Dad waved his hand, his face weary and strained. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go inside—”
I took a step back. “It does matter, Dad. Yes, I spent the day wandering all over the city, but you told me to have fun, and that’s what I was doing. And you know what? Being with Sam was fun. Maybe I don’t know his full name, or where he was born, or what shoe size he wears, but I know other things about him. Important things. Yes, we spent time together. And now he’s my friend??
?that’s how it works. Maybe if we weren’t such strangers, we could have spent the day together. Maybe we could have had fun together. Maybe then we’d be friends too.”
As soon as the words were out, I covered my mouth with my hand. Dad recoiled as though I’d slapped him.
A coldness crept through me, turning my toes, my feet, my legs to ice.
The red spots vanished from Dad’s face, leaving behind only the chalk-white fear.
“I didn’t mean that,” I whispered. “Honest. I didn’t.”
Dad held my gaze, his green eyes dull and distant. “Yes,” he said, “you did.”
The coldness rose past my hips all the way to my heart.
Dad looked away, studying the flickering lights around us as though they might spell out the answer to his questions in code. “You’re a lot like your mom, did you know that?”
“I’m nothing like her,” I said, frowning, but my mouth felt numb.
He didn’t seem to hear me. “You are both strong-willed and stubborn. You both speak your mind no matter what. You both have this same dimple that shows up only when you’re mad. Frowning makes it more visible, too, you know.”
I forced my mouth to flatten into a line.
His own mouth flattened to match. “And neither one of you likes to admit when you’ve made a mistake.”
My inhaled breath felt sharp in my throat. My nose and cheeks tingled. The edges of my vision blurred. A dull roar sounded in the back of my head, a wave that crashed through me, washing away thought and leaving behind only instinct. “That’s not true. Mom knew being with you was a mistake. That’s why she left.” I took another step away from him.
“No, Sara,” Dad said, his voice trembling and his face ashen. “That’s not why she left.”
“Then why?” Those two words ripped through me like thunder following lightning. A stab of energy, then nothing but noise. “Why did she leave?” For eight years I had wondered. I’d waited for Dad to tell me something—anything—about the why behind everything that had happened. But he had kept his silence. I think he was afraid to say; I know I was afraid to ask. What if the answer was me? That she left because of me? “And why didn’t she ever come back?”