It sounded like a riddle. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She got up from the bed and flattened out the page for me.
“Read it again,” she said. “Take your time. Take as much time as you need.” And then she left the room, closing the door behind her, the latch clicking shut.
I picked up the poem, steeling myself for the possibility of seeing Charlie through Anna’s eyes while also knowing how it all ended.
I read through the poem slowly, hesitantly, waiting for the trapdoor to open underneath me.
I read it again.
And again.
It took a while for me to understand.
Because I had assumed it was about a boy. Because that fit with what I was searching for. Because it fit with the dress.
But I had been wrong. Just like I had been wrong about so many things.
Because it wasn’t about Charlie. Or even Nick. Wasn’t about a boy at all.
It was about me.
It was about us.
I want to tell you everything
Want to talk deep through the night—
Sometimes I feel you already know
All the things I hold inside.
It’s hard being away from you
And it’s hard being too close by
You want so much, you are so sure—
I feel so far behind.
And I can’t forget you lying there
Stretched out beneath the sky—
How my heart only started to beat again
When you opened up your eyes.
SARAH AND I HAVE STARTED running together. We do shorter runs than Nick and I did, and we take a different path. Sometimes she gets sick of maintaining a steady pace and she sprints off like a jackrabbit and then waits for me to catch up. I tell her it’s good practice for when she’s in cross-country again. Or, rather, when we do cross-country together in the fall. I think I’m going to be good at it. I think I’m going to be better than her. I haven’t mentioned that to her. Not yet.
A couple of times, Mona has run with us. When she does, Sarah sucks it up and runs alongside us the whole way.
We don’t talk much on these runs, even when it’s the three of us. We don’t talk about Charlie, or that night. Don’t talk about all the other drugs the police found when they searched his room, or what we’ll say when we’re called up to testify against him. Don’t talk about how his father resigned, the official word being that he wanted to “spend more time with his family” and the unofficial word being that he was forced to resign after it came out that he hadn’t submitted Anna’s samples for testing, that he’d lied to cover up for his son. Maybe there will be a time when we’ll want to talk about some of it. Maybe there won’t.
It’s different, but we don’t talk about Brian either. Don’t talk about how he and Mona sit across from each other at lunch sometimes, at the far edge of the cafeteria. Sarah and I try not to pay too much attention to the two of them together, try not to notice how most of the time they don’t talk and they definitely don’t touch. It’s private, whatever there is between the two of them, and delicate. But it looks a little like hope, like a new beginning.
I think Anna would have liked that.
I think she’d have liked how Mom brought down a photo album from the attic the other day, and we looked through it together, looked at old pictures of her. At the photo of her on the homecoming court, her hair stiff with hair spray, and a huge, huge smile on her face. Anna’s smile. I’m not sure why I never noticed that before.
Sometimes I tell Anna about these things—all the things she’s missing. All the things I think she’d want to know about.
Sometimes I almost think she can hear me.
Sometimes I almost think I can hear her respond.
For a brief period of time, I harbored pleasant delusions about the kind of writer I’d be, picturing myself as the confident yet mellow sort who’d calmly go through the process without much fuss. Instead, it turns out that I’m a grumpy and angsty writer—not mellow at all, and far from a joy to be around. So, many thanks to everyone who put up with me while I wrote this book. I can’t promise I’ll be any better in the future, but I’ll try.
I would also like to thank the coffee shops and bakeries of Chicago, where I spent many hours typing away, fueled by tea, cookies, and the occasional iced coffee. Bourgeois Pig, The Perfect Cup, La Colombe, The Grind, and Floriole, you guys all really know what you’re doing.
Moving on to my family, who are even better than sugar or caffeine (and I do not say that lightly). My parents are amazingly supportive and kind and just delightful through and through, and my sister is brilliant and wonderful and a huge source of inspiration. Mom, Dad, and Emma: I love the three of you so very, very much. Thank you for reading various drafts of this book, sometimes on ridiculously short notice, and for being such fantastic people I’m so proud to be related to.
Many thanks also to my nonfamilial beta readers and fellow writers, Jennifer Solheim and Stephanie Scott. You read my book when it was still figuring itself out, and you gave me such helpful feedback—I will appreciate that forever. Thanks as well to my other writer friends who provided great moral support throughout the process: Kristin Hamley, Jen Minarik, Rachel Leon, and Claudine Guertin.
I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to my teachers at StoryStudio: Rebecca Makkai, Molly Backes, and Abby Geni. You are all incredible teachers and you each, in your own way, inspired me to keep chugging away at this thing.
Enormous thanks to my agent, Bridget Smith. You are the best. Your taste is impeccable, your notes are
