Something, anything, to keep from being a victim. To keep from being helpless.
You can lose yourself to it. To the need to be anything other than never enough.
What Clay said. That’s not pacifism, that’s self-annihilation—that’s not you.
I will never just stand by. So what choice do I have?
My hands loosened. I opened my fingers wide, stretching out the fist. Letting go of it.
“Danny,” I said. “Give it here. Maybe I can fix it.”
Alex flicked a glance up at my eyes. So I gave him the smile that Cyndra said wasn’t real. To show him how close it was—the choice.
How close it still was.
Alex smirked but looked away.
Danny walked over, holding out the toy. Gave it to me.
It sat in my open hands.
I let my glare press on Alex. Let him feel the weight of its promise.
Alex glanced at me, popping his knuckles. The show he’d have to back up. I held his gaze until he dropped it.
“Come on,” I said to Danny, and led him out of the room.
“You ever have a real dog?” Danny asked as we climbed the stairs.
“Nah. Too much trouble.”
“Yeah. Too much trouble.”
I stopped. Danny bumped into me.
“It might not be too much trouble for you, Danny. Not if you really want one. It’s no trouble at all, then.”
Danny’s smile was wide, like he was letting me in on a secret. “They said you were trouble. When you got here.”
I laughed. “They did, huh?”
The smile on my face felt like it belonged there.
That was the choice I had to make. How to move on. What part was mine. How to handle every shitty thing that had happened—or ever would. The choice to let it ride in me, like a bullet lodged in bone, poisoning everything. Or let it pass through, leaving a scar, a mutilated tissue-trail. The possibility and the choices after, everything that’s left after the violence has passed.
Scars prove that you’re still here. That you can move on. Maybe missing a chunk of yourself, but here, goddamn it, surviving.
And who knows? Maybe you heal.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
TO BORROW AND ADAPT from the Bard, I were but little grateful if I could say how much. However, I must attempt it, so here goes.
First and foremost, to my editor, Michael Green. This book exists because of your vision and understanding. It takes a truly gallant heart to see light through the darkness, thank you.
Thanks also to the team at Philomel, and assistant editor Brian Geffen, for his many invaluable additions and for calling down the lightning.
Special thanks to Jodi Reamer, whose passion for this book absolutely blows me away. Your intuition is impeccable; particular thanks for helping me find Clay.
There are people who come along and change the course of your life. Chantel Acevedo, Eve Engle, and Rachel Hawkins, you crazy, brilliant, wonderful life-changers! Thanks for the encouragement, wisdom, sanity-preservation, and most of all, love.
Doraine Bennett, Kara Bietz, and Vicky Shecter: When I picture the four of us, we’re in a treetop fort and we’re kids, and I’ve known you all my life. Thanks for your contributions and for helping excavate the ending. Our retreats at the Roost are some of my happiest writer days.
I never thought I’d say “my friend from Twitter” and get teary. Carrie Mesrobian, endless gratitude for your eleventh-hour read-through triage when I panicked. Who would have thought live-tweeting crap TV would lead to such a great, fearless friend? You beggar belief, Mesrobian.
A book is nurtured by every patient listener. Therefore, my heartfelt gratitude to: Christopher Parsons, Jeanette Barnes, Kelly Ann Griffiths, Peter Huggins, and Steven Hamrick.
Jennifer Taylor, here it is in writing: We will always be best friends. For life. That’s a promise. You amaze, enlighten, and delight me. Thank you.
Since childhood I have been blessed to know Amy Heidish and Kristen Pickle. Amy, thanks for your dedication to your craft. You inspire me. Thanks also for your endless patience with my many questions. I love that we can “talk shop” and have heart-to-hearts in the same breath. Kristen, thanks for always being there for me and my family. What a remarkably generous spirit you possess. LYLAS, both.
Profound thanks to the Highlights Foundation, which granted me a scholarship to attend their amazing workshop at Chautauqua.
My sister, Caroline Banks, is my first reader. The writers know what that means. It’s a BFD. You’re a dream-protector, a possibility-seer. Thank you, Caroline, for your unfailing belief and enthusiasm. You are the bravest woman I know. I love and admire you beyond my ability to say.
Jack, Gus, and Nick, my boys, I love you so much it makes me catch my breath, every breath.
Bob Parsons, there is no other like you. I continue to learn so much from you, about perseverance, art, life, and love. Thank you so much for your support and for your calls to balance when I lose myself in the work. I can’t express how much I appreciate your insights into this story, your encouragement, and your pride. I love you.
This book is dedicated in loving memory to my parents, John and Konny Banks. The jagged geography of loss leaves me speechless here.
“Treasure these moments, they are all too fleeting.”—JB