I forgave my sisters almost immediately.
That Christmas, when we all visited our father in Southern France, he and I went on a long walk and developed better communication skills. I admitted to him that I’d always felt like I needed to hide away how much I loved to play, that I was constantly worried I was setting him on edge by reminding him in any way of Mom.
“I have always loved that you’re gifted with music,” he’d said. “And I’m so proud of you for pursuing it, Strawberry. I’m sorry I haven’t made that explicitly clear, but from now on, I will try.”
He succeeded. Over the next four years, bookended by my graduation day, Ifelthis pride.
And still, I told myself a lot of different theories about why I couldn’t let Liam back in, and why I couldn’t let himout, onto the page.
His betrayal was the worst; he was the one to actually share my private songs.
If I let him back into my life, he’d only keep pushing me, and I couldn’t take being constantly thrust outside of my comfort zone.
And back then, he wouldn’t even apologize.
But at the same time, I owed him my whole future. I loved him. I understood his perspective. I wanted him to be okay, to heal his body, to mend the distance with his family.
I watched social media for signs of life, mostly through Carlos, and self-soothed his absence every time I saw his smile. The first time I posted about being at Belmont, and Liam liked the photo, I stared at my phone for days, wondering if he’d reach out.
He didn’t.
I didn’t.
Holding pattern.
You were on track, and I was a mess.
I thought of dropping out all the time.
I’m scribbling all this and more in my journal, at a city park a few blocks from my and Liam’s DC hotel, when I hear a voice I’d recognize in any city, any decade.
“Paige?”
I glance up at her, nostalgia bolting through me in a clean slice.
Maisy Morgan.
I’d been thinking of her. And my family, and Evan, and my professors, and Harry, and really any person who ever altered me. And now I wonder if I conjured her from thin air.
Maisy’s bright red hair is cut into a bob now, even shorter than the last time I saw it. She’s dressed in a walking outfit, headphones around her neck.
“Recognized those curls from clear across the park,” she says.
“Oh, my God,” I murmur, breaking into a wide smile.
Maisy giggles and kneels in front of me, drawing me into a tight hug. I return it enthusiastically and can’t help the soft sob that leaves me when I say “It’s great to see you.”
“You, too.” She pulls back, settling onto her heels, and we look at each other with twin expressions that seesaw between routine and surreal.
Maisy and I have kept in very loose touch, purely through social media and the rare, odd text, like my show of support when she transferred colleges, or her congratulations when I started at Belmont. We send birthday wishes every year and promise to get together if we’re both in Bristol, but she’s as unfamiliar to me now as a once-beloved, now-absent children’s toy.
“Do you still live here?” I ask.
Maisy nods, tucking her short hair behind a heavily bejeweled ear. “I’m in law school now.”
“Law school,” I repeat, completely dumbfounded. It shows in my voice, and she laughs again. “How did I not know this?”
“Because no one in your family visits Bristol anymore, and I only lurk but never post on social media these days.”
