“For what?”
“Well . . . for one thing, dragging you out of your home at . . . what time is it, anyway?”
“I’m a New Yorker. We never sleep.”
“I think the saying is about the city. Not the people who live there.”
He kisses me on the forehead, and I’m aware of someone watching us. A fan of his, probably. They’re everywhere. “You know I love you,” he says, and I don’t care who’s watching.
“Luke?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I?”
He holds out his arms. I rest my face against his chest. Press my ear to his thick sweater and wind my arms around him, pulling his body close enough so I can hear the heartbeat. We stay like that for a long time, my head pressed against him, Luke tolerating my embrace in the gentlest of ways until finally I get it together enough to pull away. “Thank you.”
Maybe I am sick. Maybe something inside me got broken when Emily died, and it will always be there, rattling around, hurting me. I accept that. I’d rather be hurting forever over Emily than living the way Matt does, as though she never happened.
Luke brushes a lock of hair out of my eyes. “When are you going to stop all this stuff?”
“With the Blanchards?”
He nods.
“Maybe when they die.” I’m joking, I think.
He sighs, condensation spilling out of his mouth. “That anger, Cam. That’s what I mean.”
“Look, I can’t help the way I—”
“And it isn’t doing a thing to them. You get that, don’t you? They’re going on with their night, drinking champagne, toasting their award-winner. They don’t think they’ve done anything wrong, and they never will. They see themselves as the victims. They see him as the victim.”
“How do you know that?”
He stares at me for what feels like a full minute.
I pull my coat closer. It’s cold out, but not with the energizing bite of a typical winter night. It’s more insidious, the chill seeping under the collar of my coat, through the weave of my tights, sliding down the back of my neck until my whole body is shivering and it feels more feverish than weather-related, not energizing at all. “I didn’t want to show you this,” Luke says.
He’s scrolling through his glowing phone, and then he’s handing it to me. I gape at the screen: The Blanchards grin back at me, hands grasping each other’s shoulders. Harris holding his golden award. A perfect little family.
Luke follows Lisette and Harris on Instagram （the father, Tom, doesn’t have an account）。 I know this. In fact, I was the one who asked him to do it, more than a year ago, figuring I’d get blocked if I tried. But the photo still gets to me. How could it not? Imagine looking at a posed picture of your child’s murderer. Imagine him basking in the warmth of his parents’ embrace. Imagine he’s staring straight at the camera, smiling up through his eyes, healthier and happier than you’ll ever be. . . .
“Read the caption,” Luke says.
I read, my fingernails digging into my palms.
Kudos to our Harris, recipient of the Martha L. Koch award!!! It seems like just yesterday you were a little boy, chasing Buster around the yard and dreaming of playing for the Yankees. Now you’re all grown up and surpassing OUR dreams. We couldn’t be prouder of the brilliant, thoughtful young man you’ve become!!!! #blessed I skim the comments—hearts and happy faces and praying hands sprinkled throughout them like confetti.
“Did you see the last comment?” Luke says.
I do now. It’s from Lisette. I look up at him.