“Yes,” I say.
“You were the great love of my life,” he says. “That’s just how it happened. But I won’t be yours.” He isn’t sad, not even a little bit. “I don’t want to be.”
“Tobias,” I say. I feel my eyes sting up again.
“Not forever. Okay?”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Here,” he says. “I want you to have this.” He hands me the pocket watch, the one that was my father’s, that I gave him.
“It was a gift,” I say.
“Still is,” he tells me. “Like Robert said—I can’t take it with me.”
Tobias wraps his arms around me. I drop my face into his neck, but then I open my eyes, because I don’t want to miss seeing him, not a moment of him.
“I didn’t tell you,” he says. “I remember now.”
I look up at him. “What?”
He pauses, like he’s taking me in. His eyes drift over my face like it’s a lazy Sunday afternoon. Like we have all the time in the world in which to gaze.
“You were wearing a red tank top and denim shorts. Your hair was down and you kept swinging your arms by your sides. I thought you were going to knock someone over.”
I think about the two of us, standing in the sand, no idea how entwined our lives were already—and would be.
“That’s how I see you,” he says. He gives me a little salute, and then he’s gone.
Just like that. He doesn’t so much disappear as he leaves. I imagine he’s off to the corner deli, picking up cigarettes and a bottle of off-brand seltzer.
I walk the rest of the way home alone. I find my keys at the bottom of my bag by an old piece of dried-out gum and a lip gloss. I climb the stairs to my apartment. It’s dark, and I flip on a light. There are remnants of birthday cake on the counter, and I drop my bag down next to them—a slice of frosting, chocolate crumbs. I head into the bedroom.
I take the shoebox out from under my bed and rifle though it—photos of Tobias and me, keys to our old apartment, Broadway Playbills, movie stubs, the wrinkled Post-it, the ring—until I find what I’m looking for. It’s a letter, addressed to me, from Alex Nielson, dated 2006. I open it and read.
Dear Sabrina,
It’s strange to be writing you this, although I suppose stranger for you to be reading it. My name is Alex and I’m your sister. We share a father, Robert Nielson, who gave me your name, and I looked you up. It’s really cool that you’re at USC. I’d love to go there someday, although I’m not sure I’ll get in. I’m only in eighth grade but my grades aren’t very good. I love to write though.
I’m the older of two. I have a younger sister, Daisy. We don’t really get along. Sometimes that makes me wonder if you and I would and other times it makes me convinced I have to know you. I guess that’s why I’m writing.
Dad talks about you. Not a lot, but sometimes. When I ask he always will. He told me that he hasn’t seen you since you were a little girl. He said he doesn’t want to disturb the life you have now and I understand but I also sometimes wish he would. He’s a good dad. It makes me sad to think you don’t know that.
He told me a story about you the other day. Daisy was carrying on about her name. She doesn’t like it. She thinks it’s too girly. She’s all goth right now—total rocker chick. She asked why they gave her that name and my mom (her name is Jeanette) said it was because daisies were the first thing she saw in the hospital room when she had her. Daisy thinks that’s lame. Anyway after dinner I asked about you. I wanted to know why they named you Sabrina. Is that strange? I’ve never even met you before. All I’ve seen are photos of you when you were very small.
He told me he loved Audrey Hepburn. He said she was his favorite actress. On his first date with your mom he took her to see Sabrina. It was playing at a black-and-white theater and they got popcorn and milk duds—this is all him, btw. He told me the details. Sabrina was his favorite of Audrey’s movies. He thought it meant something that the heroine isn’t a shrinking violet—that she goes in search of a life for herself and returns stronger for it. He told me when he met you he thought that’s the kind of woman you’d be.
I bet he was right.
Love,
Alex
P.S. If you’d ever like to get together let me know. Dad promised to take me to an exhibit in Santa Monica next week. It’s on the beach. Maybe we could meet there.
There are many ways stories can unfold, and now I see this one begin to take shape. Something different in the space where there used to be just the one thing. I put the watch and receipt in the box, proof of the night, of the decade—of what was once and is no longer—but when I go to close it the lid won’t fit. There is something stuck up against the side. I let my fingers thread in between the cardboard until they find the foreign object. I unhook it and hold it in my hands, and that’s when I see it’s the photograph. Not Tobias’s, not the one I lost, but the one we stood in front of on the beach that first day. The little boy and the eagle. It’s a print no bigger than a postcard.
I never bought it, I’m sure of that. But here it is in the effects box. The little boy stands with wings spread out behind him, his eyes closed. He appears just as he was that day ten years ago—to be soaring.
I take out a pen. I flip the photo over. I think about what comes after—how much there is to say. Twenty-four years. Birthdays. Cross-country moves. Jobs and life. Begin, I think. Begin begin begin.
Dear Alex, I write. And for the first time in a long time I know exactly what it is I want to say.
Acknowledgments
To James Melia, my brilliant editor, who gave me a soft place to land when I really needed it and made the process of this book so wonderfully delightful. Thank you for loving these characters as I do.
To Erin Malone, my incredible literary agent, for being the toughest editor and greatest champion. I didn’t think I’d ever find you. Thank god I did. Also: You’re never getting rid of me.
To Dan Farah, my miraculous manager. You make everything I do bigger, better. This road is brutal and beautiful. Thank you for hanging in with me. I love you.
To everyone at Flatiron Books, especially Bob Miller, Amy Einhorn, and Marlena Bittner for being the most loving, warm, dynamic, and exciting place for Sabrina. You guys rock.
To David Stone, my television agent, for his steadfast belief and Jedi skills. Thanks for being our grown-up.
To Laura Bonner, Caitlin Mahoney, and Matilda Forbes Watson for ensuring this book travels far and wide.
To Leila Sales, Lexa Hillyer, Jessica Rothenberg, and Lauren Oliver for their endless encouragement, love, and life talks. What would I be without this community we’ve created?
To Jen Smith, for being the best adult sherpa in town. I adore you.
To Melissa Seligmann, for letting me play with our past and for pushing me to honor our present.
To Hannah Gordon, BFF and first reader. I continue to be so screwed without you.
To Raquel Johnson, for fielding every phone call and loving me with such incredible blindness. Baby, we are so lucky.
To Chris Fife and Bill Brown, who saw me through one of the toughest years of my life with extraordinary compassion. You are my angels.
To the cast of Famous in Love, who made me a mama for the very first time—never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d get so lucky.
To my parents, who remain my true north. It’s a good thing I’ve been single for so long—otherwise I’d have nothing to write about. You have done your job so remarkably well.
And finally, to any woman who has ever felt betrayed by fate or love. Hang in there. This isn’t the end of your story.