Heart pounding, I tap to open it.
My dearest Delaney,
Happy eighteenth birthday. I wonder if this email might come as a surprise, though admittedly it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while now. Something I hope to give you even if I’m no longer there to pass along these words in person. Scheduling this seems like the best chance I have, a guarantee that part of me can still be with you, even in a small capacity, on this momentous occasion.
Eighteen.Wow.
Do you remember when you were just twelve years old, sprawled out on the carpet in the living room, and you’d asked if the universe could hold memories?
You’d been consumed by this book about the galaxy, so quiet except for the occasional flip of the page. You always ask questions that astound me, Delaney. But this one had me stumped. Because you know what I say. There’s so much we don’t know about the universe. It’s ever-expanding, as are our minds. And yet, nothing feels impossible.
I’d like to believe the universe holds memory in the way it knows how. Pulses, waves, gravitational forces. Energy. Every star it’s lost, every new one gained. There is something beautifully poetic and powerful in how we remember. What a gift it is to have cherished, to have formedthose memories. Learning, observing, navigating this planet in our own original way.
Delaney, I hope you know I’ve treasured every memory we made together. Even when it’s my time to descend onward and outward into the depths of the universe, know that I go carrying the greatest gift of a lifetime. This family, and you, my bright observer, are all I ever wanted.
Happiest birthday, sweet.
All my love,
Dad
25
Once the tears come, theydon’t stop. My chest stutters over shaky inhales and my lungs force out rocky breaths, but it’s not led by melancholy of what I’ve lost. It’s a tidal wave of comfort, a wash of nostalgia. Sparks of joy from roaming over sentences and sentiments he strung together. Forme. Still here, even when he’s not.
I spend the next day in bed, mostly because the pain prevents me from moving, and partially because I want to cathartically cry in peace. I hate to cancel on Analiese again, but she texts to say she understands. We used to share everything with each other. Keeping William’s secret, lying to her about the engineering project, all of it weighs on me. If I told her everything, would she even believe me? Maybe. Then again, she’s desperate for a story. It might give her more incentive to pry, and I don’t want to invite that in.
I’m less miserable when I’m cocooned in blankets rereading my dad’s email. I don’t tell Jared or Madelene. The fragility of grief is delicate, and I’m afraid this will cause them to shatter. It’s best I keep it to myself.
Monday is hard. The pain throbs like a tender blister, scattering my concentration. I’ve forgotten my favorite headband and keep moving my hand to adjust a hair accessory that isn’t there. Imust look like shit, because Sumner shifts his stare in my direction more than once during history. During our quiz, multiple-choice answers blur beneath my vision, and after, he forgoes taunting me in favor of heading to lunch with a few guys from crew.
A blessing, however small.
I’m 50 percent more human by Wednesday, but I’m exhausted as I drag myself to the athletic center for our ballroom dancing lessons. Even though this is the last thing I feel like doing, I can’t deny my eagerness to see William. When did I become this pathetic over a boy?
I’ve never had a single dance lesson in my life—those were saved for Madelene—because it wasn’t me. That urge was never there like it was for her. It’s nerve-racking having to participate in front of everyone.
Most seniors are already in the gymnasium with their escorts. Sabine and Inessa stand in a semicircle, Gareth Shep and Essie Burlen by their sides.
“Hey,” I say as I approach them. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“I don’t know.” Sabine props her forearm on Essie’s shoulder, casual, and Essie tips her head closer. “It might be fun?”
Sabine, I’ve learned, goes with the flow. She carries herself with this unshakable elegance that feels so easy, so carefree, and I wonder if anything truly bothers her. She’ll be good at this, no doubt.
“If you step on my feet,” Inessa’s telling Gareth, “I willpersonally string you upside down by your shoelaces on that”—she gestures—“basketball hoop.”
“Technically it’s called a rim,” Gareth offers.
Inessa ignores this. “I am very good at knots.”
Essie leans over to me. “He begged to be her escort. It was cute.”
“I am a priceless jewel with many options,” Inessa warns. “Don’t make me regret this.”
I aspire to have Inessa’s confidence. It’s unfaltering.
William’s across the basketball court in conversation with Lionel. My face warms as he presses a palm against the wall, one boot tucked behind the other, eyes focused on whatever Lionel’s saying. Most people do anything to escape a conversation with Lionel, but not William. His attention is unwavering no matter who’s speaking to him, a type of practiced focus that makes you feel important.
