We both sat there for a moment, until the roar of the engines was the only thing I could hear. Then, eventually, Daniel turned away and I put my earbuds back in, and we sat in excruciating silence for the next hour or so as the plane made its way back to American airspace.
¦¦¦
We landed at O’Hare. We trudged through customs. And we walked through the cheesy neon light thing on the moving walkway that I loved when I was a kid. Grace kept her distance—probably as much for her well-being as ours. We were almost to the crossroads of our gates when Daniel finally stopped and just stood there, holding his duffel bag in the fluorescent light of the airport.
He looked completely drained. I’m sure I did, too.Someday I would have to ask myself why the guys I liked were always so sad. But that was a question for another time. I walked up close to him.
“It’s been nice getting to know you, Daniel Torres,” I said. Then I paused. “Actually, it’s been kind of fucked up and strange. But nice too. Not without its nice moments. Anyway... thank you.”
“For what?” he said.
He seemed genuinely shocked to hear my words.
“For making all the stupid decisions that made this possible.”
He just looked at me.
“I mean it,” I said. “Without them, I’m not sure where I’d be.”
His face turned a little red, and I couldn’t tell if he was going to laugh or cry or maybe just tell me to go to hell. Instead he said:
“I just don’t know yet, Tess.”
“Know what?”
He took a step to the side and looked down.
“Who we are without him.”
I met his eyes. There was sleep in the corner of one. I had the sudden urge to wipe it away.
“Me neither,” I said.
Around us people were dragging their suitcases past us, going around the two-person obstacle in their path without a second thought. Ours was a movie that played occasionally at airports. Everyone had seen it before.
“We could find out,” I said.
He nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “We could.”
But he didn’t sound convinced.
“Letters,” I said.
“What?” said Daniel.
I wasn’t sure I had really said the word until it came out again.
“Letters,” I repeated. “I would like you to write me letters.”
His lips parted. I kept talking.
“I want you to use a pen and write things to me on a piece of paper,” I said. “It doesn’t matter what kind. And then put that paper in an envelope and put a stamp on that envelope. And send it to me. And I’ll do the same thing. For you.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I haven’t written a letter since I was a kid,” he said.
