I clutched Xander’s letters to my chest. My father stood in the door, not quite blocking the way but enough. My heart pounded and my breath wouldn’t go past my throat, but I took a step. Then another, until I was nearly past him.
He grabbed my arm, like a snake striking, his fingers digging into my flesh. “I’m not let you do this. I refuse—”
“You don’t have a say. I know you hate that, but there’s nothing you can do.” I shook my head. “Some part of me will always love you. But mostly, I just feel sorry for you.”
His eyes flared, and then his free hand whipped up and lit my cheek on fire with the sudden, stinging pain of a slap. I turned my head back to stare at him, my face aflame.
And then I slapped him back.
The shock of it, more than the pain, stunned him. His fingers around my arm loosened, and I broke free.
“Goodbye, Daddy,” I whispered.
I twisted out of his grip and then I ran. Down the stairs and out the front door. Nowhere to go, no money, no idea what came next. The Harringtons’ black sedan was pulling into the drive, and an exhilarated laugh burst out of me. I must’ve looked like I was running from a fire, running in a dress and heels, with only a stack of letters to my name.
That’s all I need.
Night was falling. I ran until I couldn’t, and then I walked until I found myself at Brenton Park. The anvil-shaped rock was still there. I sat down, nerves humming, my lungs sucking in the deepest, cleanest breaths of my life, and I read every single one of Xander’s letters.
In them, he told me about his life at Langdon School, his worry for his father, and complicated physics questions that fascinated him—as if I were an equal who might understand.
And in each letter, he wondered if I might write back. At first, with curiosity and politeness, then with more and more hurt and confusion as his letters went unanswered.
Under the light of the lone lamppost, I read Xander’s words andcried so hard, at times I could hardly see the pages. And then I reached the end. Xander, now fifteen years old, had written to me for the last time.
Dear Emery,
At this point, it’s self-flagellation—a kind of sweet torture—to keep writing with no expectation of hearing back. Something has prevented you from receiving my letters, or you have chosen to send them straight to the trash pile. Whatever the reason, I have come to the end of my own capacity for hope.
This will be my last letter.
And because it’s my last letter, I feel compelled to write down, in black and white, what I’ve been too cowardly to express all this time, and that is to say that I love you.
It makes no sense. We were children when we met. We only had a handful of minutes. Scientifically, there is no justification for why I should feel like I do. It is not my nature to romanticize my way into loving a stranger, and it doesn’t seem possible that my bitter heart crafted these feelings from scratch. At first, I wondered if it was the comfort you gave me (which was quite a lot). Of all the kids at the park that evening, you chose to sit with the sad boy who’d lost his mother. You made me feel less alone at a time when I had never felt lonelier.
But it’s not gratitude for your compassion that compels me to love you. Instead, I worry that it’s something unexplainable. Something fantastical or magical that I can’t sort out, even with my “genius” brain working overtime. I have no rational explanation.
Nevertheless, I am in love with you. Irrevocably. Some part of me recognized a part of you that day—as if I had found a missing piece of myself. But I have lost it again, so I have to stop writing now, though I’m quite sure I’ll never stop loving you.
I hope that your life is full of beauty and joy—as much as you are yourself—and I hope, too, that you somehow know I kept my promise.
I did not forget you.
I never could. I never will.
I will love you forever.
Yours,
Xander
A sob tore out of me. I held the letter to my heart and cried tears of joy that this boy loved me, and I loved him. No matter what happened next, I knew I was going to be okay because my heart was intact. I was alive in the world but fully myself, and that was all that mattered.
I heaved several deep, shaking breaths. My phone was at the house. I had no way to call anyone. Nothing to do but start walking.
“Emery?”
My head whipped up. Xander stood in the yellow glow of the lamp in his usual jeans and jacket. His eyes behind his glasses, red and shining.
