Twenty-Nine
A week later, the doorbell rang. I put down my book and went to the door in my Friday post-school outfit: leggings and an oversized T-shirt. Hopping through the mudroom, I opened the door, but no one was there.
So I looked down. And found a package sitting on my parents’ doorstep.
The paper was brown.
The string was twine.
But this time, the package was addressed to me:Abigail Schoenberg, 85 Oak Road, South Hadley, Massachusetts.
Déjà vu washed over me. The lightest, strangest feeling fluttered in my head, glitter and cotton candy and the sea. I looked down the driveway, half expecting to see the same delivery truck from months ago pulling away down the road.
I carried the box inside. Dad was at work, Dave at soccer practice, Mom upstairs in her study. I settled on the living room sofa, late afternoon light spilling over me. My hands trembled as I unwrapped the brown paper, then used a key to open the taped box inside. I lifted the box’s flaps and revealed a white creamy envelope.For Abigail.
Hands trembling, I lifted the envelope and stared at my name for a long, careful moment. Then I set it aside and turned back to the box. A black velvet case fit snuggly within. I placed it in my lap andran a finger across the top, watching as the threads of fabric reversed directions.
Throat dry, I pulled the lid up. It opened with a concentrated snap.
O’ma’s necklace glinted against the black velvet backdrop.
I looked away, out the French doors at the trees heavy with leaves, blinking back tears. My pulse pounded in my throat and air raced through my lungs. I’d known as soon as I’d seen this package what it would be. What it was. It felt inevitable.
I closed the box and opened the envelope.
Dear Abigail,
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my grandmother having the necklace earlier. I should have; should have told you the first time we talked to my grandfather. I tried, and I chickened out. I should have told you the second time we talked to him and I knew he wasn’t telling you everything. I was trying to protect my family, but I don’t need to protect them by keeping their secrets from you.
I’m even more sorry I left Nantucket when we were mad at each other. I mean, yes, I had orientation. But I should have called you and worked this out.
The thing is, you’re not the only proud, scared, stubborn one. I don’t want my words to be tossed in my face or to be rejected. Here’s the other thing, Abigail Schoenberg: I love you. I love you and I want to be together.
I know you’re nervous about a long-distance relationship. And yeah—maybe our relationship will end in property theft and we’ll marry other people and bury our feelings for the rest of our lives (but we should probably not, because it seems unhealthy and unfair to other people). But maybe we won’t follow in ourgrandparents’ footsteps. This could work. I want it to work. I think we’re worth it.
P.S. Please, please don’t be mad at how much money the necklace cost. My mom says to think about it in terms of percentage of income, and the money is being donated to charity, and also we get a tax write-off.
I was still sitting there, stunned, a few minutes later when the doorbell rang again.
Oh god. I swiped at my eyes. My whole body felt light and jittery and like it hardly belonged to me.
“Abby, can you get the door?” Mom called from upstairs.
It took me a few seconds to regain control of my vocal cords. “Yes!”
Each step felt like I was moving in slow-motion, pushing through molasses as I stepped into the chilly mudroom, then, ever so slowly, unlocked the front door and pulled it open. I thought my entire body might stop working. I thought my legs might turn to jelly.
Noah stood there, framed against the fall colors, wearing a crimson sweatshirt. His hair was mussed like he’d driven his hands through it moments ago. We stared at each other.
I gripped the door’s frame and waited for the world to stop spinning.
“Hi,” he finally said.
“Hi.”
It was September 20, his third week of classes (I’d checked) and seven days after Rosh Hashanah.
“You’re here,” I said stupidly, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You—you bought the necklace.”
