I exhaled sharply. Embarrassment sizzled through my veins. “God. I’m sorry. I’m not this person. I’m a mess right now and I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I spun around and hurried toward the door, eyes stinging. Behind me, I heard a sigh. Then, “Sorry about your dad.”
I jolted to a stop. I’d heard it so many times over the last nine months, yet it never got less jarring. A wrecking ball to the soul from the moment the doctor looked me in the eye and said exactly what I expected her to say.
“And your sister,” he added. I turned, swallowing over the humongous knot his words left in my throat. Our eyes met across the room, exhaustion seeming to replace the fury. “But giving this letter to Cat won’t change anything. It’s not an answer to her problems, or my problems, or yours. No matter how badly you want it to be.”
Obviously, the letter wouldn’t fix everything broken in our lives. Maybe it had already done its job in reminding Phoebe there were things worth looking forward to, things that would bring her joy. Maybe, instead of finding Phoebe her ending to this story, all we could do was wait for time to do its thing.
“I know,” I said softly, and a tear slipped out. I wiped it away, turning my head in the pathetic hope that he might not notice, as if he hadn’t clocked my plan the second I walked in here. “I just… I don’t know what to do anymore.” The tears kept coming and I dropped my face into my hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing and it’s ruining her. I’m ruining her.”
A moment later, featherlight fingers wrapped around my elbow, gently guiding me into a soft chair, a box of tissues on my lap. When I lowered my hands from my face, he had retreated behind the front desk, as if we needed something solid between us. Maybe he thought emotions were contagious.
“Sorry,” I croaked, pulling several tissues from the box. He watched me uneasily, his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers. “This is so pathetic. I’m sorry.”
“When, uh…” He squirmed, clearly uncomfortable, yet his eyes remained fixed on me. “When did it happen? Your dad.”
I sniffled, wiping my eyes again. “September.”
He shut his eyes, nodding, and his expression struck me somewhere behind my rib cage, the familiarity of it. Loss. I imagined him thinking back to Catalina leaving. Maybe he’d remember how out of his mind he was back then and it would be easier to see where Phoebe and I were coming from when we opened that letter and proceeded to turn his life sideways.
“It’s still new. Raw,” he said. I clutched the bunch of tissues in my fist a bit harder as his eyes met mine again. “I see it all the time with the kids who come in here. There’s no magic fix. It’s just… time. It takes time.”
“I know that. But it’s hard to sit here and wait when a week ago, Phoebe was smiling.” I stood, still wobbly on my feet. He removed a hand from his pocket to rub his jaw, that penetrating gaze less intimidating. Something in there wasn’t calcified and cold; a glimmer in that gentle touch, a willingness to listen. “Can I… What can I call you?”
He tugged anxiously at his hair. “What?”
“You told me not to call you that name. What should I call you?”
“I don’t…” He broke off with a sigh, dropping his gaze to the desk. I shouldn’t be calling him anything, he meant. I should be walking out the door and making a point to never see him again. I’d read his deepest thoughts and feelings without consent—I was not entitled to his name. But then he dropped his hand to his side and said, “Dex.”
Dex. It certainly fit him. A little more mysterious.
“Dex,” I said and he immediately lifted his head, eyes meeting mine. “Thank you for giving me the time of day. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”
He offered a stiff nod, and it felt something like a truce. He made his way around the desk, toward the blue door without another word, and my eyes snagged on the slope of his shoulder blades beneath the crisp gray button-up. Fleetingly, I wondered what made him the kind of person who ironed his clothes, but neglected combs and razors. I understood the desire my sister felt to unravel it, solve it, tie each end neatly. But if he wanted those ends tied, he would’ve tied them. That same apathy probably kept him from combing his hair.
Or maybe it wasn’t apathy. Maybe it was a level of self-preservation I’d lost a long time ago.
I returned to the apartment with two bags of Thai food and a supremely bruised ego. Phoebe popped her head over the side of the couch, interest piqued by the arrival of food, but sat bolt upright upon noticing my outfit.
“Are you going out?” she demanded. I piled the bags on the counter, wishing with everything in me that I’d left well enough alone.
“Nope.” I unloaded the take-out containers, ignoring her eyes piercing a hole in my back. “Food’s hot.”
“Then why are you—”
With a sigh, I turned. “He didn’t send it.”
I braced for visceral disappointment, for Phoebe to crash, shut down, spiral out. Instead, she hurled herself over the edge of the couch.
“Oh my god! You went back?”
“I was curious.”
“You went back dressed likethat?” She smirked. “Vi.”
“Gotta work with what you got, right?” I replied, keeping my tone neutral. She’d transformed into a curious shelter cat who’dfinally moved in to sniff my extended hand. I didn’t want to make any sudden movements. “It was pointless, though. He didn’t send the letter and doesn’t plan to.”
