“She never talks to me,” I say, and my voice breaks. “This morning, she wouldn’t talk to me.”
“She feels so guilty,” he says quietly. “She’s so worried she’s going to say the wrong thing and push you farther away. She’s terrified of losing you, too.”
“You don’t know that.” I sniff and wipe my eyes on my sleeve.
“Kid. That is literally all she talks about.” Alan puts a hand on my shoulder. I stiffen and keep my eyes locked on the steering wheel, but he leaves it there.
“Then why doesn’t she talk to me?” I demand.
He hesitates. “I don’t know. She’s not perfect. Neither of us is. I don’t think she knows how to fix it. I sure don’t. But fifteen minutes ago I didn’t think you and I could have a civil conversation, so maybe things can change.”
I nod. Maybe.
“If I ask you a question,” he says quietly, “will you give me an honest answer?”
I nod. My head is still reverberating with his words from earlier. We were worried about you, Declan. Those words have swelled to fill every nook and cranny of my brain.
“Do you think about trying again?”
I’m so glad it’s dark outside the car windows. I can’t look at Alan now. I wish I hadn’t promised him an honest answer.
“Sometimes,” I say. “Never like . . . that night. But . . . sometimes.”
He nods. “Do you ever think you want to talk to someone about it?”
“Like a therapist?”
“Sure. I told Abby we could all go. Or just her, or just you two, or even just you, or—”
“Okay.” The word feels good to say. I feel drained. Wrung out. And while I’m not optimistic enough to think that this conversation is the beginning of a magically great relationship with Alan, I am crazy enough to acknowledge the spark of hope that’s flared somewhere in my chest. I miss my mother. I miss feeling like I’m part of something.
I nod again. “I’ll go.”
“I’m glad.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “Your mom will be really happy.”
I glance at him. “I’d do anything to make her happy.”
“I know,” he says. “Me too.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
From: Declan Murphy
To: Juliet Young
Date: Wednesday, October 9 10:21:07 PM
Subject: Making new paths
I thought I’d be spending the night at Rev’s tonight. I had a huge fight with Alan and my mother this morning, and I thought that was it. There was no coming back from what any of us said. Forget making a path—this morning’s conversation was like the aftermath of a nuclear bomb.
But tonight Alan’s car broke down. I helped him out. We talked. It’s the first time we’ve ever done that. Like—ever. He wants to go to family therapy. I said okay.
This is a lot harder to write under my own name. You have no idea. I reactivated The Dark’s account, but it’s not the same now. That felt like hiding. And it was.
So here I am.
I should have told you that night on the side of Generals Highway. I should have told you a thousand times since.
I hope you don’t think I was trying to trick you.
The opposite, really. I was trying to trick myself.
I wasn’t ready to let go of what we had.
My dad is half asleep on the couch in front of some HBO special, and he startles when I come down the stairs and into the living room. He fumbles for the remote and turns off the television.
“I thought you were already in bed,” he says.
“Not yet.” I was lying in bed, reading the email on my phone, tracing my finger over Declan’s name.
He’s right. We were hiding.
Dad yawns and rubs at his eyes, then studies me. “Are you okay? Do you want some warm milk to help you fall asleep?”
I smile, but it feels wobbly around the edges. “I’m not six, Dad.”
He smiles back at me, but his eyes are shadowed and tense. He’s worried about me.
Mr. Gerardi didn’t tell him about the pictures. When he called my father, he said I was developing Mom’s photographs, saw something upsetting, and destroyed them.
I wonder if that makes him a coward.
I wonder if not saying anything makes me one.
“Do you want to come sit with me?” he says.
I’m about to refuse because I haven’t sat with him in years—but then he holds open his arm and pats the cushion beside him. “Come on,” he says, teasing gently. “Sit with your old man so you can tell your kids how I used to torture you.”
When I drop onto the couch, his arm falls across my shoulder, giving me a tight squeeze. His body is warm beside me, and I feel secure and loved under the weight of his arm.
I’ve spent years idolizing my mother and her vibrancy, thinking of my father in boring shades of beige, when he’s been right here beside me the whole time.
And she’s been with someone else.
“Shh,” he says, and I realize I’m crying.
I press my fingers into my eyes, and he holds me close, stroking my arm.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he says.
“I don’t—” My voice breaks, and I have to try again. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” He kisses my forehead. “You won’t hurt me. I don’t want to see whatever it is hurt you.”
I stare into his compassionate eyes. My own well with fresh tears. “Mom came home early.” The tears fall, hot and heavy, and my breathing hitches.
My father goes still. “What? How do you know that?”
“Her boarding pass was in her bag.” I can’t look at him. I can barely breathe through these tears. This is going to destroy him, but I can’t carry this weight on my own. “She came home early to be with Ian.”
“Juliet . . . how—”
“I saw it, okay?” The words practically explode out of me. “I saw it. There were pictures of them on her camera. In bed. I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me.”
“Juliet—oh, sweetheart.” Breath comes out of him in a long sigh, and he pulls me back against his shoulder. His hand strokes over my hair again. “Juliet, I could never hate you.”
“I’m so mad at her,” I say. “How could she? How could she do this to you?”
“Shh,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay!” I draw back and look at him. “I hate her. I wanted her to come back. So badly.”
He grimaces, and his eyes fill, too. “Don’t hate her, Juliet. Don’t hate her.”
“Did she love us at all?”
“You?” His voice breaks. “Oh yes. She loved you more than anything.”
I snort. “Not more than three days with Ian.”
He laughs, but it’s a sound full of sadness. “Yes, more than even that.” A pause. “She loved you so much that she stayed with me.”
“What?”
He shakes his head a little. “Your mother was—a bit of a free spirit.”
My voice won’t raise above a whisper. “You knew.”
“Not the details. I never wanted the details.” He snorts, the first sound of anger I’ve heard from him. “Now I know why he wanted that damn camera so badly. If I’m mad about anything, it’s that you found out this way.”
“But . . . but . . .” I swallow, my head spinning. “But you were so sad.”
His expression shifts. “I was sad. I am sad. Regardless of what she did, she was my wife. She was your mother. I was used to her being gone for long stretches of time, but this is a different kind of permanence. If that makes any sense.”
It does. “How long did that go on?”
He shrugs, a motion full of resignation. “I don’t know. Forever, probably. But I didn’t know for sure until a few years ago.”
I can’t wrap my head around this. “But . . . why did you stay with her?”
<
br /> He chucks my chin and gives me a sad smile. “Because I loved you, and you loved her. I couldn’t take that away from you.”
My brain begins realigning the moments I’ve seen them together over the last few years. My memories are crowded with special times with my mother, but moments shared between my mother and father are suddenly understandably absent. I always thought this was a failing of my father’s, not being able to live up to her brilliance.
I never realized it was a failing of hers.
I swipe my hands across my face. “I wish I’d known.”
He cocks his head. “Do you really?”
“Yes. I thought she could do no wrong. I thought she was the bravest woman alive.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Jules. Your mother was a brave woman. She did amazing things.”
“She was selfish,” I snap. “Coming home to play house when she felt like it, and leaving you to do everything else.”
He winces. “Maybe a little. But we all have different capacities for failure. This doesn’t take away from her work. This doesn’t take away from her love for you.”
“She came home three days early for someone else.” I sniff and swipe tears off my cheeks again. She doesn’t deserve any more tears. Not now. “That’s going to take some time to get over.”
“I know,” he says softly. “I know.” He pauses. “But I was here for those three days. And I’ll be here for all the other days, as long as you need me.”
I throw myself into his arms.
He holds me, and it’s the best feeling in the world.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
From: Juliet Young
To: Declan Murphy
Date: Thursday, October 10 5:51:47 AM
Subject: Letting go
I’m glad you never told me. I didn’t want to let go, either. In fact, I’m a little sad that it’s over. I keep thinking about our conversations in real life and replaying them with the knowledge of who you were on the other side of our letters. There’s a part of me that still doesn’t quite believe it’s really you.
There’s a lot you don’t show the world, you know. I think you should. Give them a new snapshot. Show them what you showed me.
And on that note . . . what now?
There’s an envelope on my dresser when I wake up. My name is written on the front, and it’s in Alan’s handwriting.
Inside, I find three hundred dollars.
My eyes almost fall out of my head.
I don’t know what to make of this. I pull on a T-shirt, grab the envelope, and go down to the kitchen. Mom and Alan are at the table, drinking coffee, speaking in low voices.
I hover in the doorway, immediately off balance.
“Declan,” says my mother.
“Hey.” I fidget with the envelope. The money is making me uncomfortable. I don’t like the feeling that they’re trying to buy me off somehow. It seems to weaken everything that happened between me and Alan last night.
I walk over to the table and throw it down. “I can’t take this.”
“We want you to have it,” my mother says softly.
I frown. “I don’t want your money.”
“It’s your money,” Alan says. “You earned it.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You fixed my car. Didn’t you say three hundred was the going rate?”
“I said I would go to counseling or whatever you want.” I take a step back, my jaw set. “You don’t need to buy me off.”
“No one is buying you off,” he says, his voice matching mine for intensity. “You said that’s what a mechanic would charge, so I’m choosing to pay you.” He hesitates. “And maybe we were a little too harsh when we took all of your money to pay for representation last May. You spent years saving that.”
Yes. I had. It takes a lot of odd jobs and oil changes to make three thousand dollars—and this doesn’t come close to replacing that.
Which is okay. Which is better somehow.
“Besides,” says Alan, “you got a call from a guy named John King. He says he has a few friends who want you to take a look at their cars. I figured I should get your services while they’re cheap.”
Frank’s neighbor. I feel light-headed. “John King called?”
“His number is by the phone. He said they’re willing to pay you for a consultation.”
Like I’m a doctor or something. I swallow. “Okay.”
Mom slides out of her chair, walks over to me, and puts her hands on my face.
It’s so unexpected that I freeze.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you. I want to try to be better.”
“You don’t need to be better,” I say softly.
“I do.” Her face crumples a little, but then she catches it and takes a long breath. “These crazy hormones.” She swipes at one eye. “I’m getting another chance. I want to do it right.”
My words from yesterday morning echo in my head, and guilt tackles me. Replacing Kerry?
I can barely speak through the shame. “I’m sorry for what I said,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“Stop,” she says. “It’s okay. We’re all getting another chance.”
With that, she puts her arms around my neck and squeezes tight. I hug her back. I can’t remember the last time my mother held me, and I hold on for a good, long time.
Then she jumps back. “Did you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
“He kicked! First time!”
I smile, thinking of the lady in the hospital. “I have that effect.” Then I realize what she said. “He?”
“Yes. A boy.”
“A brother,” says Alan.
A brother. I’ve spent so much time thinking they were trying to rebuild our family that a baby brother didn’t occur to me. My brain almost can’t process this. I step back. “I need to get ready for school.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I stop in the doorway and pull a twenty out of the envelope, then walk back and slide it in front of Alan.
“What’s this for?” he asks.
“Parts,” I say. “You bought your own.”
“Why are we at school this early again?” says Rev.
We’re sitting on the darkened front steps of the school, waiting for the security guard to unlock the main doors. It’s freezing, and I’m about ready to fight Rev for his hoodie. He’s even got his hands pulled up into the sleeves. Fog has settled across the parking lot.
“I have to meet with my English teacher.” I give him a sideways look. “You don’t have to be here.”
“You’re my ride.”
“Then shut up.”
Shoes shift on pavement, and Mrs. Hillard appears out of the fog. “You’re even here early,” she says in surprise.
“Lucky for me,” says Rev.
I punch him in the shoulder and shove to my feet. “You didn’t say what you wanted to talk about. I thought maybe it was important.”
She shifts her bag to her other shoulder. “You ready to go inside?”
“Sure.”
Rev steps forward, and she looks alarmed for a moment. The dark and the hoodie make him look like a criminal. Then he says “Do you want help with your bags?” in his disarming voice, and she smiles.
She holds out her shoulder bag. “Such a nice offer.”
The school is nearly silent at this hour, the hallways shadowed by intermittently lit security lights. Mrs. Hillard’s classroom is a well of darkness until she flips the switch. Rev and I drop into chairs in the front row.
She glances at Rev, then back at me. “Do you mind if your friend stays?”
Rev smiles and leans back in the chair. “‘One who has unreliable friends may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.’”
Most people look at Rev like they can’t figure him out and they’re not sure if he’
s worth the effort. Mrs. Hillard just raises her eyebrows. “I might need more coffee if we’re going to start reciting Proverbs.”
I kick his chair. “Ignore him. But he can stay.”
She unzips her bag and pulls out some notebook paper. I recognize my handwriting. She’s put comments in red in all the margins.
She slides it in front of me. “Where did this come from?”
I bristle at the question. “I wrote it right in front of you. I didn’t cheat.”
“I’m not accusing you of cheating. I’m asking why you were able to put together five hundred words about a poem, when I can rarely get more than a compound sentence out of you.”
I flush and look down. “It made me think.”
“You’re a good writer. You make solid points, and you express yourself very well.”
I can’t remember the last time a teacher offered praise. Who am I kidding—I can barely remember the last time a teacher made eye contact. My chest warms with a glow, and I fidget with my pencil. “Thanks.”
“Do you plan to write like that from now on?”
This feels like a trap. “Maybe.”
“Because I was going to ask if you wanted to try transferring into AP English.”
Rev whips his head around. I’m choking on my breath myself.
“AP?” I say when I can finally put a thought together. “I don’t have any AP classes.”
“Are you looking at colleges? Might look good on a transcript.”
I look away. Most of my teachers expect me to be getting a higher education courtesy of the Maryland State Penitentiary. I’ve never considered taking an AP class, much less transferring into one a month into the semester.
“I don’t know if I could catch up,” I say.
“Do you want to try?”
You make your own path.
Yeah, but this is a path straight up a mountain. Pushing a wheelbarrow full of bricks. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t think you’re good enough? I promise you are.”
I look away. “No . . . they’re all the smart kids. They’re going to think I’m some stupid thug.”
“Prove them wrong.”