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Then, suddenly, he’s there. Again. He opens up the glass door, pulls me back out—just me—and I know I’m not new for him. He’s been rough with me, marked me, and bent me, but he’s remembering how he loved me. How he can’t give me up, and how I taught him so many things.
Like how mind-boggling big space is. Vastly! Hugely!
How dolphins are the second most intelligent species on Earth, second only to mice.
How digital watches are really pretty neat.
How the answer to the meaning of life is forty-two, and how a towel is really the most useful thing any interstellar space traveler will own.
I laugh, meeting Kade’s eyes as he looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Gingko trees are a trip,” he mumbles.
It’sThe Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.That’s the book that’s talking in the essay. I think our dad would agree that a towel is always useful.
I’m a part of him, and he can’t say goodbye just yet.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been better to stay on the free library shelf. To sit on someone’s coffee table for three months, collecting the smell of cigarettes and watching reruns ofFriends, while issues ofCosmoandGolf Digestscatter around me.
But perhaps I would’ve gone to Africa or Paris or on a ship at sea, so I’m grateful some of us stayed on the little bookshelf, and I wish them well on their journeys.
My boy still needs me, though. My travels can wait, because I will live much longer than him.
He folds me in his fist, and once in a while I feel a drop of water from his face as we go back home.
Drip, drip, drip.
I turn my face out the window, so he can’t see my eyes. He submitted this with my application.Mine. Not his. He didn’t want anyone to know this about him. I raise my thumb to the corner of my eye, wiping away the wet.
I don’t need him to explain anything to me, but I’m glad I read this. He hides so much that I get used to thinking he’s not complicated, or that he never feels pain. He’ll blow it off if I bring it up, but I’m glad I know this. We don’t have to talk about it. Not yet anyway.
“Who is that?” he says.
I look ahead as he cruises across the bridge and see a girl standing up on the ledge. They need a damn fence. Most bridges have one.
The white hair flies in the breeze.
“It’s the Dietrich kid,” I tell him. “Stop for a second.”
He draws in a breath, impatient, but he cruises up to the side and stops.
“Thomasin,” I call.
She doesn’t turn, just stares down at the water dressed in jean shorts, black leggings underneath, and a big, yellow hoodie.
“Tommy,” I say her nickname instead.
She turns and looks at us over her shoulder. Her expression doesn’t change.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She doesn’t reply, just stares at us.
“Do you need a ride?” I press.
She doesn’t respond, and I try to see if she has earbuds in, but then I hear Kade next to me.
“Get. Down,” he bites out slowly.
