Page 91

I think about his versions of these events—the watermelon lip gloss I’d worn with the very intention of trying to kiss him. The movie nights where I spent just as much time watching how close his knee was to mine, rationing out an accidental bump or a grazing of our hands. Our shared dreams about the future, what being together in New York meant to us both.

To read, so clearly laid out, how Henry saw me feels so disconnected from who I am now. It’s the person I am, but the one I’ve shoved down, hidden away inside myself. The one desperate to come free, to be able to tell him that I love him, that I’m stupid, that I’m sorry.

I fold up the letter to protect its precious contents, carefully place it back in its envelope, and then I let myself cry.

* * *

I can’t sleep that night. I can’t do anything but read Henry’s words over and over until I have them practically memorized. I feel restless and pent up and desperate to talk to someone.

Which, I guess, is how I find myself wrapped in Mom’s fluffy down snow coat, walking in below-freezing temperatures in the dead of night. I know this isn’t my best idea, but it’s my last chance. Mom and Kristine aren’t staying in Laketon, so who knows if I’ll even have a reason to come back here. It’s not far from the city, but I’ve managed to avoid this place for years and years, so the added distance probably won’t make my visits more likely.

Of course the cemetery is closed. It’s the middle of the night. I don’t know what I was thinking. The bitter cold pricks my eyes, making them water, and the tears freeze on my face. I shake my head, and with a last-ditch effort, a spark of rebellion, I reach around the metal hinge of the gate and hope for the best. Somehow, the gate creaks open, and I slip inside.

I turn on my phone’s flashlight, not exactly sure where I’m going. I’ve only been here twice—the day we buried my father, and a few months later, for the unveiling of his tombstone. I don’t remember anything from that time, if I’m honest with myself. I was numb to it all, and now, almost a decade later, in the middle of the night, I’m so lost. I can’t even do this one thing right. An absolute fuckup. That’s me. Norah Gold, complete and total fuckup.

Kicking up the remnants of snow from the last storm, I find a small winding path through the side of the browned grass. Something in my gut draws me up the path. It’s not familiar, but I’ll take any instinct I can at this point. I clearly can’t trust my own, but this feels like another source. It’s hokey to think it’s my dad, but when the path bottoms out and I see his headstone, it’s hard to believe anything else.

I run my gloved hand over the top of the stone. David Isaac Gold. I try to open my mouth, but it immediately feels wrong to stand here and speak out loud. That’s a trope from a movie for maximum emotional gut punch, not something that real, human people in pain do.

Silently, I mouth the Mourner’s Kaddish, like I should have been doing every year I didn’t visit him. I add the Shehecheyanu too, reveling in the idea that my dad would find it absolutely hilarious that I’m reciting it to mark the first time I finally came to see him.

Eventually, I sit down, not caring that the ground is wet, that the cold is seeping through Mom’s coat. I sit down and I let myself think about the person I was when my dad was still alive. The person I was when he knew me. Would she have pushed away everything good that she never thought she could have? She was scared, but she was just a girl. I shouldn’t still be that scared. I have to hold myself accountable. I’m messed up, but I did this to myself. I kept myself in this stasis. Dad wouldn’t have wanted that. Henry didn’t deserve that.

I don’t deserve that.

I spent so much time blaming other people and other circumstances for fucking me up. And yeah, sometimes you get dealt a shit hand. But between the conversation with Frankie today and Henry’s letter, I start to wonder. Maybe I’m the problem. I’ve somehow found a way to hurt everyone who means the most to me without even realizing what I was doing or intending that outcome. Maybe it’s time for me to take some responsibility for that.

I stay until I feel the cold deep in my bones, then trudge back home for the very last time. In just a few hours I’ll go to the airport. And then I have work to do.

Chapter 28

When I get back to New York, the first thing I do is unpack because, again, if I don’t do it right away, my room will become a disaster area. I’ve never once dealt with my suitcase in full the day I arrived home, and I take it as a sign that I can do this. If I’m the problem, maybe I can fix myself too.

Henry’s letter was a call to action. He hasn’t given up on me. But I need to get my shit together. I need to prove that I’m ready, and I can’t do that until I figure out how to stop running away from my problems. From the people who love me.

It’s not for Henry—it’s for me. I need to learn to be better for the people in my life. A better daughter and sister, who doesn’t only visit once every two or three years. A better, more present friend. And then, maybe, I can worry about the other stuff.

Maybe he’ll still be here. Maybe I’ll have earned him.

Before Mom woke up to take me to the airport, I’d swiped her keys and white-knuckled the drive to the Jewel-Osco. I hadn’t stepped foot inside there since before my father’s “episode,” but it was the only grocery store open early enough for me to get what I needed. Maybe I felt empowered by the visit to my dad, but for the first time in over nine years, I braved it.

And I was okay.

Unfortunately, they didn’t have any pretzel rods in stock, so I had to settle for a bag of the regular kind, but I hoped that leaving the package on his doorstep would let him know that I appreciated his letter. That I’m not a complete coward. That I’m trying.

As the month goes on, I attempt to check in more with Mom and Hannah, but whenever I talk to them, they simultaneously remind me about the looming engagement party while also making it clear that no one believes I’m actually going to attend. Mom says she’s sure I’m very busy. Hannah doesn’t shy away from reminding me that I can be a selfish bitch, and even when she couches it in affection, it doesn’t sting any less.

I purchase my flights and go so far as to send the airline info to both of them, but that doesn’t seem to make a difference. The frustration about my family is almost enough to make me forget that I’m going to see Henry.

Almost.

The day before I’m set to fly out, I text Hannah that I’m not going to bother packing my shampoo and conditioner, since we use the same ones, and that elicits an immediate phone call.

“You’re actually coming?” my sister asks, no room for pleasantries.

“I’ve been telling you this the whole time.”

I try not to get frustrated with her. I’m putting forth so much effort to think about more than just myself, to follow through on my promises, but I guess I’m the same person I’ll always be to them.