My mouth hangs open, but Annabel goes on.
“And he’s not going to come to you and apologize, if that’s what you’re hoping. You asked him not to speak to you, and he won’t.” She reaches into her dress pocket and pulls out a torn corner of paper and hands it to me. There’s an address written on it. “That’s where we live. Sofia’s well enough to stay at her dad’s tonight, and I’m going out with my girlfriends, so he’ll be there alone.”
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. I haven’t begun to process everything Annabel’s told me, and I already feel depleted. “I’m not sure I can.”
Annabel gives me a hard stare. “I’m going out on a limb here. I have no idea whether you’re good enough for my brother, but he’s never sounded happier than when he was with you. I know him better than anyone—better than you. I know he made a mistake, and he knows it, too. He’s been a complete wreck. So I’m hoping you are good enough. I’m hoping you show up.” She studies me for a moment before standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Even if it’s just to end things properly.”
27
Now
I stare at Will’s Summerhill town house from inside the Cadillac. Number 11 is a wide orange brick semidetached, three stories high, with smart black trim and floppy white hydrangeas lining the porch. It’s well past eight, late enough that I’m sure Annabel will be out.
After she’d left this morning, I told myself I wouldn’t come here. I’ve got my own shit to deal with; I can’t handle Will’s, too. I needed to resume the hiatus. I shoved the piece of paper with their address deep inside a trash bag, planning to drive back to the resort as soon as I’d finished cleaning. Fifteen minutes later, I dug it out.
When I got in the car, instead of heading for the highway, I checked into a hotel, showered, then sat at the desk to write a list of reasons why I should erase Will Baxter from my contacts and my life.
But as I stared at the blank page, I couldn’t stop thinking about Will at fourteen, angry and resentful and missing his mom. And Will at twenty-two, feeling guilty about living in Vancouver, worrying about his sister. Ten years ago, Will helped me see myself clearly, and I decided to take ownership of my future. When he walked out of my apartment that morning, I knew my life was about to change. I had no idea his would, too.
I was worried I was different.
That’s the reason Will gave me for not meeting me nine years ago. When I found the drawing in his cabin, I thought he’d been lying to me. But as I reflected on what Annabel told me, I began to wonder whether he wasn’t lying—if maybe he couldn’t tell me the full truth.
Twice, Will has crashed into my world like a meteorite, and both times, I’ve been left hollowed out. Cratered. But I’d never thought about how the collision might have thrown him off his axis.
I sat at the hotel desk, and I thought about Will at thirty-two, successful and guarded and patient, slowly finding his way back to art, dipping his toe into a relationship, claiming a slice of happiness for himself. I could hear his voice cutting through the dark the night I knocked on his cabin door in my pajamas.
What do you want, Fern?
I looked at that notepad for an hour, and instead of writing all the reasons I should let Will go, I made a completely different list.
And now here I am, outside Will Baxter’s house. Scared and in love and ready to fight for what I want. For what I think Will wants, too.
I just wish I didn’t feel like puking.
I grab the drawing from the passenger seat. My fingers shake as I press the bell, and I take a deep breath. But when Will opens the door, the speech I’ve prepared dies in my throat.
He looks nothing like himself. For one thing, stubble covers his face and neck. It’s been left unattended so long, it’s verging on scruffy beard territory. Dark circles hang beneath his eyes, and his hair is unkempt. He’s wearing a baggy pair of sweats and a stained T-shirt. As soon as he registers me standing in front of him, he snaps upright with the jolt of an electric shock.
I open my mouth, and what comes out is an astonished “You look terrible.”
“Fern.” He says my name like no one else, like it means so much more than a name. But then he blinks, seeming to remember himself. When he speaks again, his voice has cooled by several degrees. “What are you doing here?”
There’s so much I want to say, but I start with the hardest, simplest thing.
“I missed you.”
The pink creeping up from the neck of his shirt is the only sign he’s affected.
I straighten my shoulders, trying not to let his demeanor throw me. I’ve seen this before—the blank stare, the empty voice—the way he can detach, strip out all emotion, stay safe. Will is on lockdown. “And I’m here so you can ask for my forgiveness.”
He shakes his head, but before he can speak, I hand him the drawing.
“And explain yourself.”
I’ve examined it every day since I found it in his cabin, looking for a clue that might tell a different story other than the one I know is true.
He slides the page from my fingers and studies the sketch as though he hasn’t seen it before, running his hand over his cheek.
The drawing is of me, sitting at the end of the dock in a bathing suit and shorts. I’m gazing out over the water, looking bored or maybe sad, wearing the hat I’d packed for Will. Beside me is the bag that contained sunscreen and sandwiches and lemon sodas. There was a mix CD in there, too. It had a white label on its case with songs for will written in green marker.
When his eyes return to mine, they are wells of black remorse. “Fern,” he says again.
“You were there.” My voice cracks.
He nods. “Yeah. I was there.”
I swallow back the lump in my throat. “Now is when you invite me inside,” I tell him.
He looks like he’s about to disagree, but he nods again and holds the door open.
* * *
—
Will’s home is spectacular. The main floor is open concept, and from the entrance I can see past the living room and kitchen to the enormous windows at the rear. The floors are warm honey-colored wood, the furniture looks comfy, and the white walls are covered in art, though I can tell none of it is by Will.
He sets the drawing on the stone counter and takes two bottles of fizzy water from the fridge. He leads me to the poppy-colored couch at the back of the house. It’s obviously the rec area—there are framed family photos on the wall and a giant flat-screen. It would be cozy except the ceiling above opens to cathedral height. There are skylights.
I sit at one end of the sofa, and Will brushes past me to take a seat at the other.
“Annabel came to see me,” I tell him, and he makes a low groan in the back of his throat. “She said Sofia’s going to be fine.”
“Yeah,” he says, twisting his pinkie ring.
“She also said you were, and I quote, ‘a big, mopey disaster,’ which I can see was an accurate description.”
Will gives me a sideways glance. “I wasn’t expecting company.” His voice sounds like sandpaper on metal.
I take a quaking breath. I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous in my life. “Do you want to tell me why you look like roadkill?”
“It’s been a rough week.”
“I know it has.”
“I haven’t slept much.”
“Clearly.” I pause. “You’ve been worried about your niece?”
“It’s been that, yeah.”
“And?”
Will leans back on the sofa, his head tilted toward me, but he doesn’t speak.
“It sounded like there might be an and. Is there?” The tremor in my voice betrays me.
“I think you already know there is,” he says, and it chisels away at the wall of fear I’m scaling in order to be here.
“I think I do, too,” I tell him. “But I want to be sure.”
Will looks up at the skylights. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again, jaw clenching.