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Anyway, I’m sure this letter won’t find its way to you. Or if by some miracle it does, you won’t answer. But if you’re reading this, you should know two things.The Macallan 1926 is worth the extra cash. Goes down smooth.
You SUCK.Later, traitor,
GriffinWhat in the hell?CHAPTER 2
LUCAYou suck.
You suck.
You suck.
I couldn’t concentrate on anything else ever since opening that letter.
As I packed more of my father’s stuff, thoughts of a boy—well, now a man—who had once been near and dear to my heart flooded my mind.
A text from Doc interrupted my mental trip down memory lane.
Doc: I could have sworn I just saw a tit in Central Park.
A tit?
Luca: What?
Doc: A Eurasian blue tit. One of the most exquisite birds in the tit family.
Luca: Ah. Bird peeping. I should have known.
Doc: It’s a nonmigratory bird found overseas, so it couldn’t possibly be one. But if not a tit, then what is it? Last time I saw one, I was in England!
The fact that he’d mentioned England was strange—almost like a sign from the universe, given the letter from Griffin. Although technically the letter came from California. I really needed to take a breather and talk to Doc about this. I’d never mentioned Griffin to him before.
Luca: I need to talk to you about something. Can you come to me?
Doc: I think it would be good for you to try to venture out.
Sighing, I knew he was right. I needed to make sure he wasn’t in a congested spot, though.
Luca: Is the park crowded right now?
Doc: No. Not where I’m sitting anyway.
Luca: Okay. Can you let me know exactly where to find you?Doc was sitting on a bench surrounded by pigeons when I arrived at The Falconer statue in Central Park. His binoculars were facing up toward the sky, and when he lowered them down to eye level, he jumped like I’d startled him.
“Well, looks like they found their spirit animal,” I teased. “I guess word got out that the biggest bird lover to ever visit New York City was in town.”
“I wish. It was the bread. Doesn’t take much to get their attention. The problem is, they don’t understand once you run out. The next thing you know, you’re in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.” He turned to me and examined my expression. “What’s going on, Luca? You seem a little anxious. Is being out and about bothering you?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Is the packing stressing you out? Do you need my help?”
“No. I’ve actually been pretty productive in that regard.” I carefully opened the coffee I’d just bought from the food truck around the corner and blew on it. “Something else has come up, though.”
“Oh?”
Taking a sip, I nodded. “I received an unexpected letter from an old pen pal. His name is Griffin. The letter was in the pile of mail that’s normally forwarded to me in Vermont.”
“What’s bothering you about the letter?”
“It was the first time I’d heard from him in many years, and it was . . . a little bit abrasive . . . taunting. Basically, he told me I sucked. It hurt because . . . he’s right in a way. I never really properly explained to him why I’d stopped responding to his letters eight years ago.”
Doc briefly closed his eyes in understanding, seeming to know exactly where I was going with this. “Eight years ago . . . the fire.”
I simply nodded.
Eight years ago, my entire life changed.
At seventeen, I’d been a normal teenager. Friday nights were spent sitting in the packed bleachers watching my captain of the football team boyfriend throw touchdown passes, going to the mall with my friends, and attending concerts. I couldn’t have even told you what agoraphobia was back then. I didn’t have a fear in the world.
My life as I knew it ended on the Fourth of July, senior year. It was supposed to be the summer of my dreams, but instead it became my worst nightmare.
My best friend, Isabella, and I had gone to see our favorite band, The Steel Brothers, in concert in New Jersey when some nearby fireworks landed on the roof of the venue, igniting a fire that engulfed the building. More than a hundred people died, including Isabella. My life had been spared only because I happened to be waiting in line in the concession area, which was downstairs and away from the site of the explosion.
“Well, you know how long I’ve spent feeling like I didn’t deserve to live when Izzy had to die,” I said. “If she had just been the one who’d gone to get the sodas, she’d still be alive. My mental state back then was so bad that for a while, I didn’t allow myself to enjoy any of the things that brought me happiness. One of those things was writing to Griffin. He lived in England, and we’d been writing to each other since second grade—a decade. Over the years, we became more than just pen pals. We were trusted confidantes to each other. When the accident happened . . . I just stopped writing to him, Doc. I fell into my own world and stopped responding. I let our friendship die along with all the other parts of me I felt were dead.”
