But not everyone had the resources and community and luck O’ma had had.
We donated the money, and we did several interviews, and then we carried on. I wrote a killer college application essay and didn’t even feel too guilty about exploiting my family history to get it. Rosh Hashanah came and went. We ate sweet apples dipped in honey and tart pomegranates and dense kugel. Dad and I braided and baked round challah like O’ma had taught us. In services, we were reminded to ask for forgiveness from anyone we had wronged in the past year, before Yom Kippur arrived in ten days.
I sat outside on the back porch and stared at the light filtering through the trees and thought about how I was still madly in love with Noah Barbanel.
“Are you okay, honey?”
I looked up. Mom leaned against the frame of the French doors. When she met my gaze, she stepped outside, closing the screen behind her and sitting next to me on the bench.
I stared straight ahead at the trees. “I’m fine.”
She put her arm around me and pulled me toward her, my head resting on her shoulder. “You sure? You were quiet today.”
I could feel tears welling in the back of my eyes, but I tried to keep my voice steady. Despite myself, it cracked. “I’m just a little sad still. I feel like I should be over this. Over him.”
“Are you sure...” Mom started, then hesitated. “He didn’t break up with you, right? You broke up with him?”
“Technically, I guess. I felt like I had to, though.” He’d hurt me so much. He’d lied to me.
Her hand was soothing against my head, her warmth familiar and calming. “Sometimes people mess up. You have to decide if it’s worth forgiving them. And, honey, I don’t know if it’s worth holding a grudge if it makes you so unhappy. What if by forgiving him, you’d both get to be happy?”
After Mom went back inside, I stayed outside, drained of tears. Was Mom right? Should I just wave a hand and forgive him?
The stark truth stared back at me. I didn’t need to forgive him; I already had, because I understood why he’d lied to me. He’d lied because he loved his family. I’d used my anger at being lied to in order to push him away, because I was scared. Because I didn’t believe he cared about me as much as I did about him.
It was the stubborn fear of getting hurt that held me back, keeping me from reaching out to him. Because what if I got my heart broken again?
I stared out at the trees, taking deep, steadying breaths. Maybe Iwouldget my heart broken again. But so what? At least I would have tried. I’d have no regrets. I’d never wonder—what if?Maybe, like Mom had said, I’d get to be happy.
So I decided to lay my cards on the table.
The sun lowered into the woods, stretching long shadows against the lawn. The wind tugged at my maxi skirt. The days were shorter now; it was only around five, but soon it would be full dark. I pulled out my phone and opened my messages with Noah.
Looking at the blinking cursor made my heart speed up. Too much, too quickly. I put my phone down and had to catch my breath.
I leaned my head back and stared at the sky. My backyard was thick with trees, their branches reaching out across the expanse of dark blue. When I was away from the forest, I craved it, craved deep greenery and endless trees. I could breathe in the woods like I could breathe in a bookstore: fully and easily. Now I took one deep breath after another.
Hadn’t this all started because of a handful of letters? Maybe we could work it out through letters, too.
I pulled my computer to me, and began to type.
Dear Noah,
I don’t really know how to start this letter. So I guess I’ll just start.
I was angry and hurt you lied to me, yes, but the anger should have led to a fight, not a breakup. I think you’re right; Iamproud, I’m proud and I’m scared, and I should have responded to all those feelings in a better way, but instead I responded by slamming my walls up. It’s easier for me to shut people out than let them in. It’s easier to walk away than wait for someone else to leave.
I don’t want to walk away from you. I’ve never liked someone as much as I like you. I’m terrified of putting myself out here, but here I am. I miss you, and I want to be with you.
And I’m sorry, because I hurt you, too. I wanted to make you hurt as much as I did, which is horrible and unkind. And I want you to know that being without youdoesmake me miserable. I want to be with you. So badly. You’re all I want.
And if you don’t want to be with me, I get it. We broke up. And I yelled at you, and you’re in college. But god, I want to bewith you so much, it’s like a physical ache thrumming through my entire body.
You don’t have to answer this letter. But I wanted you to get it. To tell you I’m sorry. To tell you how much I care about you. To tell you I never should have responded the way I did, by pushing you away. To tell you I understand that choosing between me and your family was not a choice you should have had to make, that you should be able to pick both of us, that I should have been more understanding.
I love you.
Abigail
