Funny Story(107)

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.”

I’ve seen it, over and over again—that self-doubt, the mistrust of his own feelings, the fear of letting any bit of darkness out of himself.

“Here I am, keeping all my problems secret so he won’t rush in to fix them,” she says, “and he tells me he’s scared his childhood broke him. That because of it, he can’t be the brother, or friend, or whatever the people he loves deserve.”

I swallow hard. “What did you say?”

“I told him that, because of my childhood, I know he can. He always has.”

A lump of emotion climbs my esophagus.

“Anyway.” Her gaze falls. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do.”

I swallow. “Welcome back, Julia.”

“Thanks,” she says. “It’s good to be home.”





35




FRIDAY, AUGUST 16TH

1 DAY





I read Dad’s note in the middle of the night.

    Hey, kiddo,

Sorry to take off like this—got a once-in-a-lifetime offer. Can’t wait to tell you all about it on our way back through town! Will you be around in October? Would love to see what an Up North Fall looks like. Miss you already.

Love, Dad & Starfire



He’s the same dad as ever. The one who says one thing—I love you; I miss you; we’ll stick around as long as you’ll have us—but does another.

But that’s not what bothers me about the letter.

What bothers me is one word—October—and the low, yearning ache I feel between my ribs when I read it.

I start to cry. And then, of course, I call my mom.

“Calm down,” she says, when I start blabbering. “Tell me everything.”

Finally, I do.



* * *





?It’s still dark and damp when I meet Harvey at the front doors on Saturday morning. We’re both dressed down in anticipation of the long day ahead. He’s wearing a Howard sweatshirt and athletic pants (not the Red Wings ones), while I’m in stretchy knit pants and a baggy cardigan.

“You manage to get any sleep?” he asks, unlocking the automatic doors.

“A little,” I say. “You?”

“Not much,” he says, “but adrenaline will carry us through. And if not, we can take turns napping in the office.”