Page 70

Then I go again.

By the time we head back toward the cars, my shirt clings to my back beneath my jacket, my legs ache, and my hands won’t stop shaking. Not from fear this time. From use. From effort. From the strange, satisfying proof that my body is learning how to belong to me.

That’s when I notice the envelope tucked beneath the windshield wiper.

Another letter.

My steps slow.

I still haven’t answered the first letter.

By the time Leon took Poppy into the woods last night, I’d told myself there would be time.

Time to thank him properly.

Time to explain that his words mattered.

Time to say something that didn’t sound like I was seconds away from panicking or doing something wildly inappropriate with his mouth.

Instead, Poppy came back holding his hand, her eyes red but lighter than they’d been in months, and every word I had lodged somewhere behind my ribs.

So I said nothing.

Again.

The ache in my muscles disappears. The camp noise softens around me: Jacob and Earl talking over maps, Joanie complaining about something near the firepit, metal clinking as Barbara packs breakfast supplies away. All of it fades beneath the sudden, ridiculous thump of my heart.

I pull the envelope free, already smiling before I even open it.

Same neat fold.

Same deliberate care.

Same him.

My thumb brushes over my name, written in that bold, slanted handwriting that has started to feel less like ink and more like a hand reaching for mine. I lean against the car, the cold metal pressing through my shirt, and unfold the paper.

Dear Clair,

You don’t have to answer my letters. I know something about words getting stuck.

Besides, yesterday you answered me in another way.

You let Poppy walk into the trees with me.

I know what that cost you. Maybe not all of it, but enough. I know trust doesn’t come easy when the last man who should have protected your family put a bullet in you and left you bleeding in the street.

You still said yes.

I carried that with me all night.

It made me think about distance. About all the years I kept mine, because I thought staying away from you was the right thing, and because wanting you from a distance felt safer than wanting anything I could lose.

I told you I noticed you. I didn’t tell you how hard it was to keep my distance.

After that school tour, I kept an eye on you. Not in a creepy way, though I realize writing that immediately makes it sound creepy. I watched because part of me needed to know someone like you was still out there, moving through the same hallways, making the world feel less ruined.

Most days, you looked happy. Or close enough to happy that I let myself believe it.