GreenArrow11
That’s not what I’m saying
I don’t know what I’m saying.
Can you give me a couple of days to think about it?
GracieLou
Of course. No pressure, Arrow. Your friendship means the world to me.
Two days. Columbus tonight, Rochester tomorrow. Two days to figure out what this is with Poppy—if we can keep going after we reach our destination.
Then I’ll know what to tell Grace.
That’s fair. That’s reasonable, right?
You know it’s neither.
“Here you go, hon,” the server says.
I jerk my eyes from Grace’s message to see the server set two plates on the table. “Thanks.”
“Your girlfriend okay? I saw her run to the restroom. She’s been gone a while. Want me to check on her?”
Shoot, ithasbeen a while. And I’ve been stewing over Grace when I should have been wondering about Poppy. “Oh, uh, no. I’m sure she’s fine.”
She eyes my phone wryly. “Suppose she’ll text if she needs something.”
“Yeah. Right,” I say, even though she’ll do no such thing. We never swapped numbers. Why would we?
I stuff a fry in my mouth and return to Grace’s message. She’s still online. And I still have no clue what to do with that.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
POPPY
Istare at Arrow’s response.
GreenArrow11
Can you give me a couple of days to think about it?
The three dots appeared and disappeared for so long before that message finally came through. I watched them, hoping he’d say, “Yes, let’s do this. Let’s finally meet.”
But I got this, instead: Arrow-speak for“No, but I’m trying to be polite.”
I’ve been standing in this bathroom stall for ten minutes, my right foot propped up on the toilet handle, and this is what I get. A soft no. Again.
I cover my face with one hand, rubbing my forehead.
He doesn’t want more. Whatever we have is enough for him—maybe too much. Once again, I’m throwing myself at someone’s feet, begging to be chosen, and he just ... won’t.
This is why I got into sentencing advocacy. Not just because of Dad, but because everyone deserves to be seen. To be cared for.
Mom always loved me—I know that. But love and presence aren’t the same thing. She worked two jobs after Dad was incarcerated. We had breakfast together but never dinner except Sundays, when she’d teach me to cook. Those memories are sweet, but they were also practical. I was home alone so much I had to learn everything: laundry, dishes, how to unclog a drain, use the stove safely, operate the fire extinguisher (could have used that one a lot earlier than she ever knew).
Her love wasn’t in question. Her time was. Her energy was.
