I try to hide my impatience. Is it so unbelievable to people that we might have something to say to each other?
Mom sighs. “Get settled in for the night, and if you still want to go, I’ll take you tomorrow.”
As much as I’d like to go right this second, I realize this is my best option.
When I wake up the next morning, it’s to Mom telling me that I have a guest.
I hurry down the stairs as fast as I can.
Marcus is standing in the living room, his back to me. He’s looking at the picture of me and Dad. Our bodies buried in sand, with only our faces showing.
“I’m six in that one,” I say.
When he turns, my heart rockets into my throat. Marcus looks like sunshine in my living room, like light and hope and warmth.
I hurry across the room and throw my arms around him.
“Hey, hey,” he says, gently wrapping his arms around me, then cradling the back of my head with one hand. I sob into his chest. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I say, refusing to let go. “It’s really not.”
We stay like that for another minute, and I think, despite the circumstances,thisis our best hug yet.
“I got something,” he says, and I step back, watch as he digs around in his backpack. I’m expecting one of his birds. Maybe he brought the one I saw him making in his car shop. But what he pulls out is the paperback ofMoon Over Hanover, Dad’s book.
I stare in stunned silence because I haven’t seen a copy that wasn’t Dad’s for years. But here it is, in Marcus’s hand, looking frayed and used.
“I was in a used bookstore, and I found it. I’m only halfway, but it’s really good,” Marcus says.
I take it from him, open it, reverent and quiet. There are highlighted passages, underlined words, and I don’t think they all belong to Marcus. Some, but not all.
I thought there would never be another person who went out looking for Dad’s words, but Marcus did. And somebody before him.
I throw my arms around him again, hug him tight, fighting even more tears.
“I want it back,” Marcus jokes. “I paid three whole dollars for it.”
I disentangle from Marcus, but it’s so I can lean up, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him. Marcus’s lips are soft and familiar, but he doesn’t kiss me back. He takes several steps away from me.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
Then I remember: Jason. Everyone still thinks I’m dating him, in this reality. Marcus probably wants to do things the right way.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling defeated. “I have to sit down.” I’m so tired from the effort of all the standing that I immediately sink into a couch. I pat the cushion next to me.
Marcus sits but leaves a respectable space between us. All his movements are surprisingly tentative. “You, er, wanted to see me?” he asks.
I nod, tucking my feet under my body. “Did they tell you the same story?” I ask, and I can’t help the derisive tone in my voice. “We were both in comas andJasonwas the one who was awake.”
Marcus frowns. “Youdon’tthink we were in comas?”
“Do you?” I ask. Before he can answer, I say, “And for a month? There’s no way.”
He rubs the back of his neck, speaks to the ground. “There’s pictures, you know. Medical records.”
“It’s bullshit,” I say, dismissive, right as I see that what Marcus is actually looking at is his left foot. It is in a cast, but not the same type as Jason’s. “What happened?”
“I might not play again,” Marcus says, his voice quiet. “They’ve done two surgeries.”
