Anger and shame make me want to curl in on myself. I feel like a monster again. “I would never hurt her.” My voice shakes. “I’d never hurt the baby.”
“Hurt your mom?” He looks stunned. “We weren’t worried you’d hurt your mom. Or the baby.”
“But you said—”
“We were worried about you, Declan.” He’s turned to face me fully now. “We were worried about you hurting yourself.”
I press my arms against my stomach and clench my eyes shut.
“Don’t you know that?” he says. “Every time you walk out of the house, she’s terrified you’re going to do it again.”
No. I didn’t know that. I had no idea. I think of her face on the night of the Homecoming dance, the way her eyes stared up into mine, the softness of her fingers as she pushed the hair back from my face.
“She never talks to me,” I say, and my voice breaks. “This morning, she wouldn’t talk to me.”
“She feels so guilty,” he says quietly. “She’s so worried she’s going to say the wrong thing and push you farther away. She’s terrified of losing you, too.”
“You don’t know that.” I sniff and wipe my eyes on my sleeve.
“Kid. That is literally all she talks about.” Alan puts a hand on my shoulder. I stiffen and keep my eyes locked on the steering wheel, but he leaves it there.
“Then why doesn’t she talk to me?” I demand.
He hesitates. “I don’t know. She’s not perfect. Neither of us is. I don’t think she knows how to fix it. I sure don’t. But fifteen minutes ago I didn’t think you and I could have a civil conversation, so maybe things can change.”
I nod. Maybe.
“If I ask you a question,” he says quietly, “will you give me an honest answer?”
I nod. My head is still reverberating with his words from earlier. We were worried about you, Declan. Those words have swelled to fill every nook and cranny of my brain.
“Do you think about trying again?”
I’m so glad it’s dark outside the car windows. I can’t look at Alan now. I wish I hadn’t promised him an honest answer.
“Sometimes,” I say. “Never like . . . that night. But . . . sometimes.”
He nods. “Do you ever think you want to talk to someone about it?”
“Like a therapist?”
“Sure. I told Abby we could all go. Or just her, or just you two, or even just you, or—”
“Okay.” The word feels good to say. I feel drained. Wrung out. And while I’m not optimistic enough to think that this conversation is the beginning of a magically great relationship with Alan, I am crazy enough to acknowledge the spark of hope that’s flared somewhere in my chest. I miss my mother. I miss feeling like I’m part of something.
I nod again. “I’ll go.”
“I’m glad.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “Your mom will be really happy.”
I glance at him. “I’d do anything to make her happy.”
“I know,” he says. “Me too.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
From: Declan Murphy <[email protected]> To: Juliet Young <[email protected]> Date: Wednesday, October 9 10:21:07 PM
Subject: Making new paths
I thought I’d be spending the night at Rev’s tonight. I had a huge fight with Alan and my mother this morning, and I thought that was it. There was no coming back from what any of us said. Forget making a path—this morning’s conversation was like the aftermath of a nuclear bomb.
But tonight Alan’s car broke down. I helped him out. We talked. It’s the first time we’ve ever done that. Like—ever. He wants to go to family therapy. I said okay.
This is a lot harder to write under my own name. You have no idea. I reactivated The Dark’s account, but it’s not the same now. That felt like hiding. And it was.
So here I am.
I should have told you that night on the side of Generals Highway. I should have told you a thousand times since.
I hope you don’t think I was trying to trick you.
The opposite, really. I was trying to trick myself.
I wasn’t ready to let go of what we had.
My dad is half asleep on the couch in front of some HBO special, and he startles when I come down the stairs and into the living room. He fumbles for the remote and turns off the television.
“I thought you were already in bed,” he says.
“Not yet.” I was lying in bed, reading the email on my phone, tracing my finger over Declan’s name.
He’s right. We were hiding.
Dad yawns and rubs at his eyes, then studies me. “Are you okay? Do you want some warm milk to help you fall asleep?”
I smile, but it feels wobbly around the edges. “I’m not six, Dad.”
He smiles back at me, but his eyes are shadowed and tense. He’s worried about me.
Mr. Gerardi didn’t tell him about the pictures. When he called my father, he said I was developing Mom’s photographs, saw something upsetting, and destroyed them.
I wonder if that makes him a coward.
I wonder if not saying anything makes me one.
“Do you want to come sit with me?” he says.
I’m about to refuse because I haven’t sat with him in years—but then he holds open his arm and pats the cushion beside him. “Come on,” he says, teasing gently. “Sit with your old man so you can tell your kids how I used to torture you.”
When I drop onto the couch, his arm falls across my shoulder, giving me a tight squeeze. His body is warm beside me, and I feel secure and loved under the weight of his arm.
I’ve spent years idolizing my mother and her vibrancy, thinking of my father in boring shades of beige, when he’s been right here beside me the whole time.
And she’s been with someone else.
“Shh,” he says, and I realize I’m crying.
I press my fingers into my eyes, and he holds me close, stroking my arm.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he says.
“I don’t—” My voice breaks, and I have to try again. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” He kisses my forehead. “You won’t hurt me. I don’t want to see whatever it is hurt you.”