“Who’s going to watch Hannah for you?”
“I was going to talk to her mother today. See if I could guilt her into taking Hannah for the week I’m gone.” His voice tightens. “She’s her mother. I shouldn’t have to beg her to spend time with her own child.”
He pauses, and I can tell he’s considering whether or not to finish his train of thought. “Plus, I was going to talk to her about you.”
“What about me?” I ask, my tone sharpening without meaning to.
“Elle, Meghan lied to all of us,” he says. “I’m not done with her either.”
I glance at the box again. “I can watch Hannah,” I offer. “You made the box as payment for that. I need to fulfill my end of the deal.”
“I made you the box because I wanted to,” he says, sliding the quesadillas onto plates.
“Yeah, and I can watch Hannah because I want to,” I say. “I like Hannah, and I’ve missed her.”
“Have you missed me?”
His question catches me off guard, and before I have a chance to think, I mutter, “Yes.”
“I miss you too, Elle,” he says, setting a plate in front of me. “Is there any way we can forgive and for—”
“I told you,” I cut him off. “I’m trying really hard to forgive. But I’ll never forget.”
He sits across from me and takes a slow drink of water before meeting my gaze. “Is it the not being able to forget that’s going to keep us apart?”
I wasn’t expecting him to be so blunt, and I’m not ready for it.
“Not necessarily,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “Forgiveness is still very much an issue. What you did is what separated me from my sister—and put me in Meghan’s crosshairs in the first place.”
“And after all that, you still want to watch Hannah for me?" he says, his voice careful.
"Look," I begin, doing my best to speak without letting my emotions take over, "after learning everything that happened, I’m doing my best to process it, but I stillstruggle. Maybe, with time, I can let it go. Plus, I’m not mad at Hannah. I’m mad at you.”
“What happened that day wasn’t my call,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I was a rookie. Short of asking my partner when I could take a bathroom break, he had the final say on everything we did.”
“Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me you would’ve kept driving if it had just been you that day?”
He doesn’t answer, but glances away, clearly weighing his next words.
“No. I would’ve stopped you too,” he admits.
“That’s what I thought,” I say.
We eat in silence, speaking only when the conversation shifts to Hannah or Beth—safe ground in a minefield of everything else left unsaid.
“Your letter mentioned that Beth cried when you called her Izzy.”
He nods, chewing the last bite of his quesadilla. “She had a really rough time the first year. Especially because we weren’t allowed to see you. We kept telling her, ‘maybe next time,’ but that time never came. And after you ran away—”
“I never ran away,” I snap.
“After we were told that you had run away,” he corrects gently, “we felt hopeless. She started having nightmares and stomachaches. We were at a loss. My parents didn’t know how to help her. So they opted for therapy.”
“You sent a five-year-old to a shrink?” I exclaim, horrified at the idea of my baby sister needing professional help.
“She was diagnosed with separation anxiety and PTSD,” he says, his tone steady.
“PTSD caused by what happened that day,” I clarify.
