“At least an afternoon of leaf-raking. Maybe mowing the lawn, too.”
I look at him to see if he’s serious. “But you paid for my dress last night.”
“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “I can help you out.” He pauses. “Is that all right?”
“Yeah.” I sniff and shovel cereal in my mouth before emotion can get the best of me. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He stirs his coffee idly, then turns another page in the newspaper. “Ian called me again.”
Mom’s editor. I freeze. “Why?”
“He said he had someone looking for a Nikon F6 and wanted to double-check whether we were interested in selling that one.”
The F6 was Mom’s film camera. The body alone cost a couple thousand dollars, so it’s not a light offer. Mom normally used her digital cameras for field work because everything could be uploaded quickly from anywhere, and she didn’t have to worry about film getting damaged. She loved the permanence of film, how you couldn’t just delete an image and try again.
One shot, she used to tell me. Sometimes that’s all you get.
“No.” My voice comes out husky, and I try again. “Not yet.”
He nods. “That’s what I told him.”
“Thanks, Dad.” On impulse, I get out of my chair and hug him. I can’t remember the last time I did this, but I need the connection right now.
If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. He hugs me back, like we’ve been this hugging family unit all along.
“Never is okay, you know,” he murmurs.
I draw back a bit. “What?”
“You said ‘not yet.’” He looks at me. “I’ll leave it up to you. But ‘never’ is okay, too, Jules. Never is always okay.”
Rowan and I sprawl on the swings on opposite ends of her front porch. Late-afternoon sunlight has turned the street gold, and the breeze is strong enough to make me glad for the sweater.
My swing is still, my feet propped on the armrest at the end. I’m tired from raking with Dad but glad for my new battery and four shiny new tires. Rowan has a foot on the ground, and she gives herself a solid push every few seconds. Her swing creaks with the effort.
Cartoon hearts and flowers are oozing from every pore of her body. She hasn’t shut up about Brandon since I got here.
I’m happy for her, though. I haven’t seen Ro crush this hard on a boy in . . . ever.
“Tell me again how he kissed you,” I say. “You must have left out some detail.”
She giggles and chucks one of the throw pillows at me. “Shut up.”
I catch the pillow and hug it to my chest, reveling in the warmth there. I’ve seen Rowan almost every day since Mom died, but it’s like her death created an invisible wall between my best friend and me. We’ve been struggling to find a way to break through it. Last night didn’t tear down the wall—but it knocked a few bricks loose.
I wish I could figure out how to tear it down the rest of the way. This small crack is barely wide enough to join hands through, but maybe that’s enough.
Out of the blue, I say, “I need to tell you something.”
My voice must sound more serious than I intended. She sits up straight on her swing. “Tell me.”
I turn my head and look at her. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Yes. It is a big deal. I knew there was something. Spill.”
I frown. “You knew there was something? What something?”
“Jules! Oh my god! Just tell me!”
Now I’m self-conscious. Any confidence vanishes. “It’s silly. It’s stupid.”
“Is it something about Brandon?”
I laugh. “You are obsessed.” I pause. “No. It’s nothing about Brandon. It’s about another boy.”
“I’m listening.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket. “I don’t know his name. We’ve been emailing.” I should have planned this better. “This is going to sound ridiculous.”
A frown line appears between her eyebrows. “You met him online?”
“No. Not really.” I hesitate. “I met him in the cemetery. Sort of. He wrote back to one of my letters.”
The frown line deepens. “Your letters?”
My cheeks feel hot, and I look away. “I was writing letters to Mom. He wrote back to one of them. At first it pissed me off, so I wrote back to him. But then . . . something happened.” I shrug a little. “He’s lost someone, too. I think . . . I think we understand each other. A little. Last night, when I was stuck on the side of the road, he offered to help, but someone else got there first.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.” I click through my app until I find the latest email, where he’s apologizing for taking too long to help me. “In his email address, he calls himself The Dark. So that’s how I think of him.”
She scans the email quickly. “I can’t decide if this is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard or if this is creepy as hell.”
I grab my phone back from her. “This is not creepy!”
She gives me a look. “Are you disappointed or relieved that he didn’t show up last night?”
Well, that’s a direct question. “Both. I think.” I pause, considering. “But I’m more relieved because knowing who he is would ruin some of the . . . openness.” I fiddle with the phone, rubbing at the edges. “I’ve told him a lot about Mom. He’s told me a lot about his family. His sister died a few years ago. Something to do with his dad . . . I don’t know all the details yet.”
Rowan gives me a leveled look. “When you do meet this guy, make sure it’s in a public place, okay?”
“I’m not stupid, Ro.”
“You asked a complete stranger to help you when you were broken down on the side of the road, Jules.”
Right. I did do that.
I make a face. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Who did help you? You never said.”
I wonder if my answer is going to be better or worse than the fact that I asked a complete stranger to help me on a dark, deserted road in the middle of the night. “Declan Murphy.”
“No, seriously.”
“I am being serious.”