The world is wide and wonderful. There is so much to see, so much to explore—but some things aren’t meant to be experienced alone. Some things are meant to be lived together.
And I’m ready to go home.
57
SADIE
Iletmyself into Joe’s house.
“Joe!” I shout.
“Back here!” he yells gruffly.
I hurry down the hall and find him sitting at his kitchen table reading a newspaper.
“Hi,” I say softly with a smile.
He looks up, studying me intently. “You found her.”
I tilt my head. “What?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead Joe smiles, and Joe never smiles at you unless he means it.
He begins to rise from the chair, and I step over to help him. He waves me off, grabbing for his walker.
“Milo left you something, but he told me I couldn’t give it to you until you were ready.”
I scrunch my brows together, my heart beginning to beat a little more quickly. “What?”
“He left a box for you. You didn’t think that boy was going to give up that easily, did you? He loves you, Sadie.”
The words land heavy, but true.
I follow Joe into Milo’s old bedroom where a box sits on thefloor—a note taped to the top with my name in Milo’s handwriting.
“I’ll say this . . .” Joe pauses, blinking hard. “When that boy became mine to raise, I didn’t want to mess it up.” He clears his throat. “So I prayed. Something I rarely do.” His voice drops. “I asked God to send me help, because I wasn’t a good dad before.”
He looks past me, like he’s seeing twenty years ago. “I took Milo to church. He came home with a grin I hadn’t seen in a long time . . . and your name on his lips.” Joe’s eyes shine. “Sadie Summers—you were an answer to a prayer a long time ago.” His jaw tightens. “Thank you for giving my boy grace and love when I didn’t know how to.”
Hot tears spill down my cheeks. Joe swipes his with the back of his hand like he’s mad at them.
“I love you, Joe,” I say as I gently wrap my arms around him.
“I love you,” he says before he clears his throat loudly. “Now, I’ll leave you.”
I nod and sink to my knees before the box, wiping my face before grabbing the note.
My hands shake as I open it.
Bookworm,
I have a memory I want to give you. After all, I told you my memory was yours.
You were so enamored with your books, hence the nickname I gave you. The world could be crumbling away, ripping at its very seams, and you’d have never known. You were lost in ink and paper, and there was a September day when you sat on the bleachers lost in one of those stories during football practice. You were so focused. Your cheeks were flushed. I can still remember the blue shirt you were wearing with yellow flowers on it.
That was the day I realized I wanted to be that ink and paper.
I wanted to be the thing you were so devoted to, so amazed by . . .
