I started to put the papers back inside the glove compartment when I saw my name. I started flipping through them more slowly, and there, almost at the end of the stack, I saw it—a plain white square envelope with my name written across the front of it—in my mother’s handwriting.
I just stared at it, holding it with both hands, not wanting to even breathe in case this somehow went away or disappeared. I looked at my name on the front of the envelope, in the handwriting I hadn’t seen in so long—the looping A, the circle over the i. I turned the card over, and what I saw there made me let out a short laugh with a sob mixed into it. Across the back flap she’d drawn the Mustang with a horse in sunglasses sitting in the driver’s seat, one elbow out the window. Lots of horsepower! she’d written below it, and I laughed, even though I could feel tears prickling the corners of my eyes. The drawing wasn’t as sharp as the ones she usually did—the lines were a little unsure and wavy, and I knew just by looking at it that this was one of the ones she’d made toward the end, before even picking up a pencil hurt her hands too much, before she lost all the energy she’d once used for things like drawing mustangs in Mustangs.
I took a deep breath, then slid my hand under the flap and pulled out the note, which had been written on her stationery. MOLLY WALKER was printed across the top in raised letters, and I ran my finger over them once before I bit my lip and started to read.
Andie!
Hello, my love. Happy 18th birthday! I so wish that I could be there to celebrate with you.
I have loved this car, and I’m so happy it’s yours now. I hope you’ll use it for so much more than getting around. This car, like you, is made for extraordinary things.
So have adventures. Go exploring. Drive around at midnight. Feel the wind running through your hair.
Life is so short, my darling. And there’s no day like today.
Drive safe. Have fun. I love you so much.
(But of course you knew that already.)
—Mom
PS—I know you already are, but take care of your dad for me. He needs help sometimes, even if he’s bad at showing it.
I set the paper down in my lap and wiped under my eyes, not trying to get myself to stop crying, just trying to dry my face off a little. I looked down at the note, still a little unable to believe it had happened—that my mom had left something behind for me after all.
I read it through again, still crying, when one line jumped out at me—no day like today. And I knew, just like that, what I had to do.
I had to find Clark and tell him how I felt—how I really felt—and see if he might want to give it another chance. Even if he said no, at least I would have tried. At least I would have tried to be as honest as I could be. Because right now I was just running away when things got too real.
I carefully put her note back in its envelope, folded over the flap, and placed it back in the glove compartment, closing it and then resting my hand there for a moment. Then I got out of the car and ran full speed into the house.
? ? ?
Fifteen minutes later I glanced at my reflection in my bedroom mirror and decided it was the best I could do under the circumstances. I hadn’t wanted to take much time, but even I knew that when you are going to tell someone that you love them and want them back, it’s probably best not to do it in the T-shirt you’ve slept in, especially if you’ve stolen it from them. I’d thrown on a skirt and a white T-shirt after rejecting almost everything else in my closet, since nothing seemed right for this—even though I had never done this before and had no idea what one actually wore for it. But I could feel my heart pounding as I ran a brush through my hair and slicked on some lip gloss. I needed to do this now, soon, before I lost my nerve, before I actually started to think about what I was going to do.
I stepped into my flip-flops, then took the stairs two at a time. I had a very strong feeling this was a have-in-person conversation, and even though I knew I probably should, I didn’t want to call first, didn’t want him to be able to tell me not to talk to him anymore. I wanted to see him—to talk with him face-to-face. To tell him how much I missed him.
I launched myself out the front door and hurried to my car. I’d just tossed my bag in the front passenger seat when I saw someone walking up the driveway.
I lifted my hand to cut the glare, then let it fall it when I saw it was Palmer.
I stood by my car, not really sure what to do. My heart was hammering as I raised a hand in a wave. I half expected that at any moment Palmer would change her mind, but she kept coming toward me until we were only a few feet apart.
“Hi,” Palmer said. She gave me a nervous smile, then stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jean shorts. “Sorry for just showing up like this.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said, smiling back at her, hoping she hadn’t come over here to tell me that she’d decided we could never be friends again. “You know you can always come by.” Palmer nodded and took a breath. But before she could speak, I jumped in. “I really, really messed up,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”