“Yes. I’m sure.”
“You never came back to meet me at the park, and I never got any letters. So?” She shrugged as if to saycase closed.
“My mother left, so Dad had to work constantly to keep up. Coming back for vacation was impossible. And what do you mean, you didn’t get any letters?”
“Just that. I never got one letter from you.” She crossed her arms. “Are you saying you wrote to me?”
“I wrote to you,” I said. “A lot. And you never wrote me back.”
“No, you didn’t. Wait…you did? How many is a lot?”
“Enough.”
Too many.
The pain of my mother leaving was tangled up in the relief of meeting Emery—a bright spot in a vast field of black. But that tiny scrap of happiness withered and died with every passing day I didn’t hear from her. I was not about to chalk up seven years of heartache to an issue with the postal service. It couldnotbe that trivial. I needed someone to blame.
Emery must’ve had similar thoughts because she remained just as guarded. “Yeah, well, I never got any.”
“I wonder…” I tapped my chin, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Do you think, perhaps, your authoritarian father might’ve had something to do with their mysterious disappearance?”
Emery’s eyes flared with indignation. “No. I asked every day—every day—if I had any letters. Then every week. The answer was always no.”
The image of a ten-year-old Emery came to me: blond hair gleaming in the sun as she skipped to the mailbox, only to discover it empty yet again. But I’d upheld my end of the deal. I wrote to her and then I waited and waited…
“And of course, he wasn’tlying,” I said snidely. “That would be out of character for a strict, ubercontrolling father who chooses which college his daughter will attend for her.”
“Yes, it would be out of character,” Emery said, her chin quivering. “Because my father wouldn’t bother lying. If he didn’t want me corresponding with you, he’d have made sureeveryoneknew it. He’d have sent your letters back. Or burned them while I watched. You’d have received a cease-and-desist if you really wrote me as often as you claim.”
“As Iclaim? I poured my fucking—” I bit off my words. “Why didn’t you look me up?”
“How?”
“I told you my dad worked for the NIST. You could have—”
“You never said that. You said he worked for ‘the government.’ Not a lot to go on, Xander, especially for a ten-year-old. I didn’t even know where you lived.”
“Maryland,” I said stupidly.
“Gee, that narrows it down,” Emery retorted. “You’re the genius. Why didn’t you think to lookmeup?”
“I did. Once. To double check that thedozensof letters I’d sent were going to the right address. And they were.”
“You checkedonce?”
“My father was having a prolonged mental breakdown,” I said, my voice rising. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to follow you on Instagram, but I was a little busy picking up the pieces of our lives aftermy mother walked out.”
“So you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
Emery heaved a shaky breath. “About my brother, Grant, who went missing that day. He…died.”
Every muscle in my body seized up. “Oh fuck. Emery…”
“He was in Providence. They said he had his headphones on.” She swallowed hard and her voice grew small. “He didn’t hear the train.”
My heart dropped to the floor and took all of my bullshit and self-pity with it. “Jesus. No, I didn’t know.” I started to reach for her, then pulled my hand back. “I’m sorry, Emery. I’m so sorry.”
