“Mrs. Welch,” I reinstate, smiling. “How did you…”
Tom gestures for me to go on with a waving hand when I pause again.
I groan, feeling a rush of anxiety run through my spine that tightens my shoulders. No, I don’t know what I was thinking. A question like that is the emotional equivalent of offering your neck to a lion. But, shit, I want to know. Ineedto know.
“C’mon, spit it out, son.”
Fuck it.
“When you met Mrs. Welch, how did you know she was the one?” I let the words fly free, faster than I usually speak.
Tom’s lips thin as a wide smile spreads across his face. His eyes glaze over, as they do whenever someone replays a vivid memory in their mind. After a thoughtful pause, he answers, “The night we met I realized that, no matter what happened, there was always going to be abeforeJulia and anafterJulia. That my life, whether I liked it or not, was going to be forever split into two parts.”
I don’t know if I’m elated or afraid to hear the words that perfectly describe how I feel about Prue spoken to me. My heart races all the same. The hairs on the back of my neck stand all the same. My skin warms all the same. And I wonder whether it matters if it’s fear or joy I’m feeling. I wonder if that is how falling in love feels. Exciting and terrifying in equal measure.
Tom pats my shoulder twice, then begins to walk away. “And if you’re asking yourself that, son, well, you probably already know the answer.”
“And if I do?” I call after him.
“Well then, that’s up to you, son,” he says, waving over his shoulder as he continues up the steep steps.
Eighteen
Prue
“I want togo home,” Mom saysagainas I tuck her into bed. “No, no,” she whines softly, “I want to go home.”
“You are home,” I whisper to her, folding her sheet in a crisp line over the top of her duvet before I sit next to her hip. “You are home,” I repeat as her fear-filled eyes meet mine. “It’s okay…You’ll feel better after you sleep.”
She looks so young like this. So young and sweet and terrified that it stirs a need deep in my heart to fix what I can’t. The fear is all in her mind, and no matter how much I want to, I can’t get in there.
“Stay with me,” she whimpers, looking at the door as if she’s afraid I’ll walk out of it. “I want to go home,” she tells me again.
I don’t know what home she means. This room was her childhood bedroom, as it was mine. This home has and will always be hers. But the mind is a tricky thing and, clearly, it’s telling her otherwise. There’s no use fighting it. It will just upset her more.
“Okay,” I tell her, shifting to narrowly fit next to her on this twin-sized mattress. “We’ll go to sleep and then tomorrow we can go home.”
“Okay,” she agrees, sniffing. “Okay.”
Once her breathing has lulled to a rhythmic, slow pattern, I sit up and move into the chair in the corner. I grab a striped blanket off the dresser and wrap myself in it. The lamp on the dresser casts a warm glow, just bright enough to read by if I strain my eyes the tiniest bit. But just as I begin, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.
I pull it out and discover an onslaught of missed messages from Dad andonenew message.
Dad: How is she? Do you need backup?
Dad: Dinner is in the fridge when you want it.
Dad: I’m calling it an early night. I love you, sweetie.
Dad: But if you need me, wake me.
The one that came through only a minute ago was from Milo.
Milo: hey are you home?
Prue: Yeah, with my mom. She asked me to stay with her.
I watch as three dots appear, disappear, appear, and disappear once more. Something in my gut twists as my eyes narrow on our sparse conversation from today.
