A small white box.
My heart lurches. I’m fairly sure it’s the box of fudge, minus the note, but I open it just to be sure: chocolate.
I’m about to drop it in the trash when I catch sight of Dad’s note crumpled there.
No part of me is itching to read it, but I’m also thinking about what Mom said, about not wasting time talking ourselves out of hope, and avoiding anything that might hurt.
I can see now how much time I’ve spent doing that.
I stopped trying to make friends I’d have to move away from. I let Sadie’s and my friendship fade away rather than risk confronting her about it and learning, once and for all, that I didn’t really matter.
When Peter dumped me, my life shrank, not just because of him but because of me. I didn’t want to go anywhere I might run into him. I didn’t want to be reminded of my broken heart.
And, not to excuse any of his shortcomings, but I hadn’t known Dad was married because I hadn’t even read my birthday card.
I think about Ashleigh too, and her ex, how he was fine with things being just okay, too scared to go deeper in search of greatness when it meant risking change.
I don’t know whether I’ll eat the fudge, or read my dad’s letter, but I stuff both in the bag of Dollar Spot prizes to take back to Ashleigh’s. Then I leave my room. I turn into the living room, and I collide with something hard enough that red scorches cross the backs of my eyelids.
Not something. Someone.
A shadowy figure.
I scream.
Then they scream.
There’s a brief clumsy scuffle. Neither of us seems totally sure whether we’re attacking or trying to get away. Then a voice yelps, “I’ll fucking end you if you don’t leave!”
Ordinarily, this is the last thing I’d want to hear from someone moving around in the dark in my apartment. In this instance, cool relief rushes from my head to my feet.
“Julia?!” I say.
“Daphne?” Julia cries.
I scuttle sideways and flick the lights on. “You’re back?”
“You’re back,” she says.
“I didn’t go anywhere,” I say.
“Tell that to my brother,” she says. Heat hits my cheeks and ears. A hand goes to Julia’s hip. “Wait, I’m mad at you.”
“He told you?” I ask.
“That he professed his love to you?” she says. “Might’ve mentioned it. What was more surprising, though, was hearing you didn’t tell him you feel the same way. Which you do.”
“Julia,” I say. “It’s complicated.”
She squints, head cocking, the Nowak tilt. “Is it, though?”
An awkward silence unfurls.
Finally, she sighs. “I guess I also need to thank you.”
“What? For what?” I say.
“Miles told me you’d been pushing him to be honest with me,” she says. “About how he felt about me moving here.”
“You guys talked about it?” I say.
“We did,” she confirms.
“How was it?” I ask.
“Horrible,” she says. “I was so upset. Crying. Mad. The whole thing.”
I wince. “I’m sorry.”
“And then we kept talking,” Julia continues, “and I understood. It’s exactly the same thing he did with you.”
“I’m not following.”
“I always thought it was amazing, how Miles managed to escape our childhood without becoming suspicious of everyone,” she says. “But then he was talking about what happened with you—how he messed up and it convinced him he couldn’t be who you need, yadda, yadda, yadda. And I realized, all that shit our parents did? It might not have made him mistrust other people, but it sure as hell made him mistrust himself.”
My heart tightens and twists.
“He can’t see himself clearly,” she says. “They made him feel like all he ever does is let people down.”
