I turned to the cabdriver. “Sorry about that.” I gave him my address. “Do you mind driving all the way to Evanston?”
“Not at all, miss. Let’s get you home.” He sounded like he was glad to be rid of Josh too. He didn’t say another word, and I was grateful for that. My thoughts were loud enough. Was Josh right? Had I overreacted? Was I a prude? Or worse, a tease? Was Josh a jerk? We know what Logan was.
Now that I’ve cooled down, I admit that I took my anger with Logan out on Josh. Or should Josh have shut him up? That’s where I’m still confused. And there’s something else—something hard to explain. Logan’s comment tonight saved me from a tough decision—and part of me is grateful for that. His insult made it easy for me to leave. It gave me courage. Next time, I’ll need to decide where I stand—on my own.
I tried to call Josh to explain, but he wouldn’t answer. He says he sleeps with his cell phone next to his bed, so I assume he’s mad at me. Any insights, Mr. Knightley? (That’s rhetorical, by the way. I’ll explain after I finish this thought.) As I said, I don’t have enough experience for this, and I don’t want to ask my friends. It’s tiresome to always be clueless, and this one’s a little more personal and embarrassing than my usual blunders. I will let it rest for now. I’m sure I’ll have to pick this up again tomorrow and talk to Josh.
I’m sorry I launched into tonight’s events without addressing your letter. It arrived today and made one thing very clear: I need these letters—as they are, with no changes to our agreement. Thank you for the final chance to come to my senses. Don’t write me. Never write me. I can’t believe I asked you. The moment I opened your letter and saw your signature, I panicked. I recalled all I’d told you, all you knew, and all I feared. I felt more exposed than in the article Kyle and I wrote. You know my heart.
And tonight confirmed it. When I got home, I paced for a while, then knew I’d find comfort if I turned to you. I’m not ready to give you up—just the way you are—a safe place in which to share my life and my dreams. Thank you for this. I may keep asking questions—I can’t seem to help myself—but please, never supply the answers.
Time to sleep,
Sam
JANUARY 15
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I handed in my 5,000-word feature to Johnson yesterday. Now I wait . . .
And during my free Saturday—after all, this piece will either save me or get me kicked out, so there’s no sense stressing about classes until I hear—I went in search of Cara. Does that surprise you? It did me.
I discovered the need to find her while writing with Kyle. It was right of me to leave her at eighteen, but I did things wrong too. They were relying on me and my rent money; I shouldn’t have walked out. Maybe it was reading that Lewis book, maybe it’s talking to the Muirs; for some reason I felt the need to make things right with Cara—as best I could.
I started my search at our old apartment, which is as wretched as I remembered. No one there remembered her, so I canvassed her old workplaces and followed the trail until I found her five hours later. Her new apartment is worse than the one we shared. It’s on the west edge of Hyde Park abutting the highway, near the site of the old Robert Taylor Homes. Many of those have been torn down or abandoned now, but some remain and are shockingly scary places. I clutched my pepper spray and jumped at every noise. In spite of it being about ten below today, I was sweating under my coat.
The lobby was vacant, and the stagnant air brought back painful memories. Gunfire or a car backfiring—I didn’t dwell on which it was—sent my pulse soaring. And the clanging of the metal doors on each floor didn’t help. I’m lucky nothing happened, Mr. Knightley. It was probably pretty stupid of me to go there alone. But I’m safe now, so I can tell the story . . .
I knocked on the door to 3B and got no reply. I’d come all this way, so I decided to wait. I slid down the wall outside the door and pulledThe Life of Pifrom my bag—a Mrs. Conley recommendation. It’s about a young boy and a tiger in a lifeboat, in the middle of the Pacific. That’s as far as I’ve gotten, but I feel a connection to young Pi, trying to survive alongside the very thing that can kill him. Is a tiger easier than your own past? I was thinking about all this so hard that I didn’t hear anyone coming until the metal door slammed on the stairway.
I jumped to my feet and shoved the book in my bag. A huge Hispanic guy with long hair rounded the corner and rattled off some harsh-sounding Spanish. He looked me up and down—slowly. He made my skin crawl.
He switched to English. “Who are you?” He stopped inches from my face.
I wanted to cower, but forced myself to stand tall and straight. “Is this your door? I’m sorry. I thought Cara Sanchez lived here.”
“What you want with her?” He glanced around.
“I’m a friend.”
“She’s comin’ up.” He turned the metal knob and shoulder-butted his way into the apartment. I remained in the hall and again heard the screech of the door. Cara rounded the corner and saw me.
“Hi.” My voice sounded high and oddly perky.
“What do you want?”
No hello?“I just wanted to see you.”
“How’d you find me?”
“I asked around. All those detective novels served me well. First your old place, some job sites, friends . . .” I rushed to help her with her bags. “How are you?”
“Like you care.” She shuffled on, but I stopped.
Do I care?
Kyle and I worked hard to pull out our pasts and loosen their grips on us. Fixing things with Cara was another step in that process, but faced with her, I wondered if there was more to it. Our pasts were linked. Are our futures?
