“You’re going to call me when you get set up, right?” Marcel asks. After all our talk of leaving, he’s decided he can’t abandon the carnival.
“Of course,” I say. I watch Lars—a little paler and more prone to coughing fits—lift Emma up in a hug that nearly swallows her whole. “You guys are part of my future, whatever and wherever that might be.”
So we get in our hugs and grab the bags we stowed beneath the plush velvet bench by the door. We’re about to step onto the porch and shut the door behind us when my mother calls my name.
“Benjamin?” The lilt at the end makes it a question, like she doesn’t know what I’m doing, even though we’ve discussed my leaving. Her eyes are constantly red-rimmed these last few days, and her limp curls are shoved into a perfunctory twist at the back of her head.
I squeeze Emma’s hand before letting go and hobble toward my mother.
As I approach, the old Audrey Singer takes shape: her gaze hardens, her jaw sets like she’s ready to take a punch. “I can’t convince you to stay.”
If she had made some gesture toward apology, reconciliation, anything, then maybe my answer would have been different. Maybe. But she is a master carpenter, and in the days since Sidney died, she’s built up walls between us even more impassable than before.
“No, you can’t.” The hug catches her off guard. But after a second her arms soften and wrap gingerly around me. Her tears bleed through my shirt before I hear her shuddering intake of breath. “Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Don’t forget that.”
Her fingers cling to mine as I step away, but eventually, she lets me go.
Emma stands beside the small table in Katarina’s foyer. “I know. I know. I am so, so sorry I put all of you through this, Juliet.” She’s on an ancient rotary telephone next to the gilded skulls of small animals. Tears leave slick paths down her cheeks, drip off her chin. When she sees me, she smiles. “I gotta go, Jules, but I had to tell you I’m coming home. Tell my mom and dad. And tell Mom she’s not allowed to fly back to Guatemala till I get there.”
It seems as though Emma is finally about to hang up, when she stops and says, “Oh! By the way—I wanted to find a way to make things up to you, since, you know, I went missing on your watch. So I had one of the girls who works the midway teach me how to make a deep-fried Snickers.” Even from five feet away, I can hear raucous laughter from the other end of the line. “I’ll be there soon, Jules,” Emma says, before hanging up. She brushes the tear tracks away, and though her eyes are puffy and red from the crying, they sparkle.
“Hey!” It’s Marcel. He holds a small metal box in his hands, the keys to the Gran Torino balanced on top. “Take it.”
A peek inside shows the neat rolls of cash we’d saved up over the last few months, along with some loose bills that look as though they were hastily thrown in.
“It’s from all of us,” Marcel says, grinning.
“But I c-can’t,” I say, stumbling over my words. “I can’t take the car and the money.”
“You can, and you will.” Marcel presses the box to my chest until I’m forced to take it from him. “You couldn’t leave without her.” He tilts his head toward Emma, then toward Gin. “I can’t leave without her.”
And I get it. Of course I get it. Marcel wraps me up in a hug, and for a second I wonder if I’ll be able to let go. But then I see Emma from the corner of my eye, and all my doubts melt away.
The door clicks shut behind us with a gentle finality as Emma and I step onto the creaky porch. Every hair on my arms stands at attention as a cool breeze cuts across the lawn, and it stings at the back of my throat as I breathe it in. I am more alive than I ever have been, and I’m sure Emma feels the same. It’s in the giddy smile, the way her arm trembles—trembles and not twitches—against mine.
I stretch across the space that separates us and kiss her. My fingers dance in the short length of her hair, letting it slip and slide through my hands. She’s so warm, and there, in the hollow behind her ear, thumps her pulse.
We break the kiss, but neither of us pulls away, not yet. Her breath is hot against my cheek. Her smile is dazed, relaxed, and content. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything like that on her face.
“Are you absolutely sure you want to go?” she asks.
I look at the road in front of us, winding between the pine trees and waving moss. I think about how all I ever wanted was somewhere to call my home, unaware that home could be a person and not a place.
“Of course I am. You’re my constant.”
Her hand grips mine, and where our wrists press together, I can feel her pulse beating in time with mine.
Alive, alive, alive.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, this novel wouldn’t exist without my critique partners, who read the short story I presented them about a girl who was cursed with a kiss and demanded to know what happened to her. Thank you Tracy Jo Barnwell, Andrew Kozma, and Jeylan Yassin for insisting I write more. And to Kelly Renwick and Emma Bentley, who joined our group; I am so grateful for your wisdom and your words.
Many, many thanks to my agent, Patricia Nelson, who understood this book and what I wanted to do, and whose faith in this project never wavered. You are the best agent an author could ask for, and if I could send you a bouquet of corgis, I would.
To my editor, Stacy Abrams, and her assistant, Alexa May, for championing my book and for all their insightful words. If your enthusiasm could be bottled, you’d be billionaires. To my copy editor, Greta Gunselman, who caught all my little mistakes (I swear I will never spell “blond” with an “e” again!), and Christine Chhun, my production editor. And to everyone at Entangled and Macmillan, thank you for putting so much faith in a debut author. Many thanks also to Anna Croswell and Toni Kerr for the cover and interior artwork that made this graphic designer very happy.
I’d like to thank my family, who are the most supportive family a person could have. This is for my mom, who never said no to a Baby-Sitters Club book and my dad, who would wordlessly pull out his wallet when I brought home a book fair order form. (Extra thanks to my dad, who talked to me about cars and exactly how far one could drive with a nearly broken belt.) For Nana, who always said yes when I approached her in a store with a book in my hands, and to Grandy, who introduced me to Anne of Green Gables and Little Women. And for every other family member who indulged me with a book for a birthday or holiday, no matter how weird it seemed. You helped fuel my imagination, and I never could have even tried to write a novel without that.
A super special shout out to Stephanie Burke, Karen Lewis, Paula Leveston, Ida Yassin, Susan Crispell, Kathryn Rose, and Kelly J. Ford who were this book’s first readers and its cheerleaders.