Neither of us said anything for a moment, basking instead in the warmth of the moment.
“Julia?” Milo asked finally.
“Yes?”
“Come home soon.”
part
three
chapter
50
I sat on the side of the road for a long time after Milo hung up. I might have been too stunned to stand. Or maybe I was afraid that if I did, the warm, safe feeling inside my chest would disappear.
Milo.
All along, he had felt something for me—something real!— and I hadn’t known.
Me, the “most intelligent” girl in the senior class. The valedictorian, who got a 1680 on her SATs, but couldn’t read between the lines of all the silly, stupid gestures a boy who adored her had made.
How was it that the truth about one thing could make you feel so good—and that the truth about something else threatened to destroy you?
Something—a dog? a coyote?—howled in the distance. Above me, the sky split open as a half moon slid between the shadows. The howling sounded again, a low, mournful cry of someone waiting to be found. In front of me, the field grass rustled with movement. I stood up quickly. I didn’t know what kind of wildlife lived in Vermont, but I was not interested in finding out.
Turning around, I headed back down the road, toward town. A breeze began to blow, rustling the grass on either side of me. The smell of wet asphalt and jasmine filled the air. And then I stopped, remembering the gorge. It was the only place Sophie had ever mentioned to me. Where she went when she needed to think. How would I find it, though, from here? In the dark? I had no idea how far along this road the gorge was. But there was someone—actually, two people—who would.
WELCOME TO EAST POULTNEY.
I peeked out of the side window of Jimmy’s truck as the sign—a wooden placket planted on the edge of a circular-shaped road—glowed under the headlights. In the middle of the circle was a beautiful white clapboard church. Its steeple cut through the darkness like a glowing needle, and its doors were bright red.
“Park over there, Dad,” Aiden said. “By the bridge. Then we can just run down to the gorge.”
Aiden had opened the door when I’d rung their doorbell, looking surprised and then frightened as I burst into tears. “Julia? What is it? What’s wrong?”
Jimmy had come up behind him, baseball cap off, his white hair comfortably mussed. He’d been the one to pull me inside as I began rambling about Sophie and the gorge, leading me into the kitchen with slow nods of his head and a soft, steadying hand along my back. It wasn’t until I sat down at the table—a roughly hewn slab of wood, complete with real tree branch legs—that I realized I was inside the little yellow house. It didn’t smell like apples or cedar. It smelled like guys’ deodorant and burned toast. There was no wide window in the kitchen or any jelly glass full of wildflowers on the table. The table was cluttered with tools: wrenches and screwdrivers, small drilling bits, and a hammer. It was a mess. And it was lovely too.
Now Jimmy swung the truck around the wide gravelly arc and parked. I got out of the car and stared around at the houses skirting the edges, straining forward, as if Sophie might appear magically through the dark. But there was no sign of her. I stayed close to both men, grateful for their presence, as we passed the East Poultney General Store. Next to the general store was a smattering of clapboard houses with white picket fences and weather vanes, and beyond them, a stately brick home labeled the Horace Greeley House. I bit down on my tongue so I would not yell Sophie’s name. Despite my panic, I knew that breaking the silence in that tiny town would have been like standing up in the middle of SATs and screaming at the top of my lungs.
Jimmy and Aiden turned abruptly past the Horace Greeley House, heading down another road, more of a path, really, heavily forested and pitch-black. I moved with them, my chest tightening like a fist. Loose gravel crunched under my feet and the wind blew through my hair. I shivered. In the dark, I could see part of the small makeshift bridge Aiden and I had stood on just a few days ago, and then the sound of rushing water. I ran to it, clutching the sides of the bridge as I looked over into the belly of the gorge. It was as dark as ink.
I leaned over farther, squinting desperately for some sign of Sophie.
“Sophie!” I called hoarsely, trying to keep my voice low. “Sophie! Are you down there?”
A sound, small and faint, drifted up from a spot next to one of the birch trees. It was indecipherable, but there was no mistaking Sophie’s voice.
“She’s hurt,” Jimmy said grimly. “Let’s go.” The three of us raced to the end of the bridge until we reached the tattered path that led down the side of the gorge.
Aiden turned around then and grabbed my arm. “You stay here. It’s dangerous down there. We’ll get her.”
I shoved him back. “No way.”