Page 43 of Holden

“How do you feel,” he says.

I swallow the lump of emotion clogged in my throat. “I’m not cured or anything,” I say, smiling a little. “But I admit, getting the story out has helped me deal with the past in a much more constructive way.”

Professor Pritchard is nodding again, and his eyes kind of twinkle. “This is the sort of book that could help a lot of people.”

“Do you really think so?”

The idea of making it public almost takes my breath away with fear, but I can’t imagine stuffing it in a drawer somewhere where it will collect lust. Writing it was only part of the therapy—showing it to the world is the only way I can truly heal from the past. Getting it all out in the open.

I try not to think about the people Mom and I have deceived along the way. The lies we’ve told to remain anonymous. The friends we’ve met who will be blindsided by the truth.

People like Holden.

“This isn’t just the best thing you’ve written, Chelsea, it’s one of the most remarkable things I have ever read,” he says.

My heart pulses with disbelief. I want to be proud, but there’s still this twinge of doubt holding me back.

“You should publish it,” he says.

I blink. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Professor Pritchard goes into his desk and withdraws a file folder overflowing with paper. He hands it to me, waiting until I take it to tell me what’s inside.

“This is a comprehensive list of agents who deal with this kind of work,” he says. “I had my receptionist put it together. Don’t worry, she has no idea why—probably thinks I’m writing my life story or something. What a bore that would be.”

I chuckle to mask the tremble in my hands.

“Anyway, I’ve included some examples of how to query these agents. Though, I’m sure you won’t need any help. I’m quite positive that any one of these people would be delighted to represent you.”

My mouth goes dry. “This is all so overwhelming.”

For a split second, I catch a glimpse of the stern, stoic professor I’ve known throughout the semester. His expression goes solemn. “Think about it, Chelsea,” he says, voice quiet and sincere. “You have the potential to help a lot of people with this book. Let that be how you give back for what your father took. I believe in this. And in you.”

* * *

Professor Pritchard’s words carry me as I make my way from his office to the rain-soaked streets. I don’t have an umbrella, but I’m numb to the steady pulse of the water. Could I really do it? Publish the book and use my father’s wrongs to do something right?

My white T-shirt sticks to my chest. Rain drops fall down the back of my neck, and between my shoulder blades. By the time I turn into the cul de-sac of my dorm building, I’m soaked.

But something inside me has changed.

I duck my head to stop the rain from splattering my face, and half run to the front door, fumbling for my key. A shiver runs up and down my spine. I barely notice the man standing at the door with me, until his familiar voice says my name.

My knees buckle.

I look up and he’s there. “Holden?”

Chapter 24

My heart lifts—and then sinks at the sight of him. He’s drenched, but that isn’t what makes me sad, it’s the haunted look in his eyes. That darkness, still crawling to get out. He leans against the doorframe, and runs his hand through his hair. “Hey.”

Goose bumps ripple along my flesh. “Hi.”

We stand at the door an awkward beat, before I finally get a grip and open the door. I hold it open, trying not to cry. “Do you want to come in?”

He hesitates. Follows me inside.

We’re silent as we walk down the hall to my apartment, but I’m all too aware of his presence. It’s heavy with remorse.