—
IN THE CAR ON THE way back into town, the space between us felt like a living, breathing thing. Not a tense creature, all curled up with claws, but an inviting presence that my thoughts kept returning to. I found myself wishing we didn’t have to go back, wishing I could ask him to turn around and keep driving—to drive and drive and drive until the sun went down and the world was quiet.
But then I realized, for the first time in quite a while, that maybe there were things in Birdton for me. That I could stop chasing after Anna, stop following her shadow to dead ends, and instead concentrate on my own life and what to do next.
So when we got to my house and he stopped the car to drop me off, I didn’t get out immediately, didn’t reach for my seat belt.
“I’m planning to go to the game next week,” I told him.
His eyebrows flicked up and he smiled. “That right?”
“Yes.” Then I tiptoed out on the ledge. “So maybe we should hang out afterward. Get some food, or dessert. Something like that.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. Then he paused. “Sounds like a date, even.”
I smiled. Because it did. Because that was how I’d wanted it to sound.
And I only hesitated for a moment before I leaned over and kissed him.
And he kissed me back.
The kiss felt nothing like what I’d imagined, and yet it was exactly right. It lasted for a couple of seconds; it lasted for forever. And throughout, my whole body was in my mouth and my mind was at peace in a way it hadn’t been in a long, long time.
I felt like I’d fallen into a deep well with slick, wet walls. There was no way out, no air.
I dreamt I was drowning, and when I woke the water was still pouring in.
I never thought any of this could hurt you.
Never thought anything I did could be used against you.
I STOOD IN THE DARK kitchen making a turkey sandwich, humming quietly under my breath. I’d been humming a lot since the kiss with Nick, and the cool linoleum felt good underneath my bare feet, in harmony with the act of making a covert sandwich.
After I finished, I bagged up the sandwich and hid it in the usual place behind an oversized jar of homemade pickles.
As I closed the fridge door, my dad appeared in the doorway, wearing his plaid pajamas. The top button of his shirt hung loosely by a single thread.
“Honey, what are you doing?”
I was tempted to lie, out of loyalty to Mom. I was tired of lying, though, so I told him the truth.
“Making my lunch for tomorrow.”
He blinked, and scratched his neck.
“I thought Mom did that for you?”
“Sometimes she forgets parts.”
He started to smile. “Ah, yes. I myself have received a lettuce sandwich or two, and once a pita with mayo. Only mayo.” He mock-shivered in revulsion.
I smiled back. Dad’s hatred of mayonnaise was legendary in this house.
“I haven’t had the heart to tell her either. She really wants to take care of us, so it feels only fair to try to let her.”
“She’s been doing better recently,” I said. “Mostly the sandwiches are okay now.”
“I think you’re right. But I still worry about her.”
I made myself sag against the counter, relaxing the pressure on my left knee. In reality, there was nothing wrong with it, but I’d told my parents that I’d been getting sharp pains, used that as my excuse to continue to skip track practice. I missed running, but I couldn’t go back. I had that much self-preservation, at least.
“If it makes you feel better,” I said, “Mom never made great sandwiches. Anna and I tolerated it for as long as we could, but after she made us hot dog sandwiches, we told her we were old enough to start making our own lunches.”
He made a pained face. “Hot dog sandwiches? That sounds terrible.”
“They were truly atrocious.”
We stood there, basking in the normalcy of the moment. Just a father and daughter making fun of Mom’s cooking. It felt like how we were supposed to be together. Felt like family.
“I’m sorry about hiding the box of Anna’s stuff from you guys,” I told him. “I am. I want to say that to Mom, but I don’t know how.”
“I know, sweetheart. And your mom knows that as well. It’s just that we miss her, too. The two of you were always so close that we felt shut out sometimes. And it feels like you’re still shutting us out, and she worries that’s how it will always be.”
“Oh.” I’d thought it was all about the box. Or rather, all about Anna. “I’m sorry,” I repeated.
“It’s okay. We’re all still a mess, really. It’s going to take us some time to figure out how to move forward. How to handle the fact that she’s not coming back.”
I nodded and then looked away, staring at the moon through the kitchen window.
The furnace kicked on and we were surrounded by white noise, its static forming a cloud around us.
Dad stretched his arms and yawned. “Well, I’m going to head back to bed—go to sleep soon, honey.”
“All right, Dad.”
He waved. I waved back.
MOVING FORWARD. CONCENTRATING ON MY own life. That was what I wanted to do. I needed closure, though. And since I wasn’t going to get that from Mr. Matthews himself, I wanted something else. And I decided that what could suffice were Anna’s English papers—the version with Mr. Matthews’s ink on those pages, his words. They were, I knew now, probably as close as I was going to get to hearing what she had meant to him, and it was important to me to have them. Then I could move on.
The door to his classroom was unlocked, just as
