“How long were you apart?” I ask.
Foster answers. “At first, eight months. We went home for Christmas.” A beat. “But then two years and four months before we saw one another again.”
And four months. He knows how long down to the month. Counted it and stored it somewhere deep.
“I want to ask you both something, and I want you to actually think about it before you answer.” I turn to Foster first. “Why did you come here? Not why Paisley recommended it to you. Why did you come?”
Foster is quiet for a long moment. The thread from his sleeve is balled up in his fist now. “He’s my brother.” He says it simply. As though it’s the only math that calculates.
I turn to Decker.
His jaw moves. His eyes are fixed on his hands. “Because I stopped knowing how to talk to him. And I don’t want that to be how it stays. I want a relationship with my brother.”
It’s the most either of them has offered me in three sessions.
I reach for my notebook slowly, and they both notice.
Neither of them tells me to stop.
We’re finally getting somewhere.
Chapter
Eight
Penelope
* * *
The house is too quiet when Hazel’s at school, so I’ve been filling it the only way I know how—with boxes and a box cutter and the illusion that if I get everything in order on the outside, the inside will come together too.
I moved us here to be closer to my dad, hoping he could fill the role of a male figure in Hazel’s life. My dad has a four-year contract with the Colts, which hopefully means he’ll be here the entire time. Longer if we’re lucky. Even after a lifetime of watching coaching rule his life, I convinced myself this time would be different—we’d have more time to see him during the season. At least we’ll have the offseason when his attention isn’t so divided.
I’m busy in the basement of our new house, going through boxes my mom shipped to me when she remarried, moved into his place, then decided to travel for the rest of her life with her wealthy husband.
Using the box cutter, I pierce the tape, then pry open the flaps. For a half second, I stare. Then my stomach drops, and I wish I had grabbed literally any other box from the pile. I thought I’d gotten rid of this box years ago, but apparently, it’s been at my mom’s, stuffed in a corner of the crawl space.
My hands slide into the box, and I pull out the scrapbook I made so many years ago.
I have no idea why I want to torture myself, but I release a breath as I open the front flap. The first picture hurts in a way I couldn’t prepare for.
Decker Davis and I at the ages of eleven and twelve. Me with a medal around my neck and his arm swung around my shoulders.
My finger runs along the date printed at the bottom. Twenty years later and we couldn’t be further apart. Those two kids who had a friendship so deep I thought he’d be part of my life forever are long gone. I should have paid attention to the signs. It’s in all the movies—once your heart is too involved, the friendship turns fragile, ultimately shattering to pieces.
I continue to flip page after page. Decker with medals, rings, tournament banners. Me on pedestals, him at the fence line cheering. And then one picture makes me stop. I’m mid-run, not even looking at the camera, and he’s staring at me with a look I don’t remember.
We were really happy then and smart not to step over the line. We should’ve remembered our commitment to our friendship all those years later when we were in college.
I reach the end of the scrapbook and spot the letter still in the back pocket.
Don’t open it.
Do not open it.
My hand is already reaching for it. That’s my entire problem when it comes to Decker—I never listen to common sense.
I lift it out of the pocket, and I cross my legs, leaning back against the wall.
