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“No, I meant the missing,” I say.
She pats her shoulder. “Here. Lean on it.”
With a frown and a yawn, I obey. Sighing. And thinking some more on everything that happened in France. “But I also needed it, you know.” I think I mean both the Paris affair and the end of it. I’m not sure I’m ready for anything more.
She hits stop on the show. “I think you did.”
Camden knows I told Finn about my intrusive thoughts. Earlier tonight, I gave her the rundown on my trip, leaving out the garden revelation in Giverny.
I figured I’d spend the flight home replaying theit’s not your faultconversation, letting it fully soak in. Instead, I read, watched a movie, fell asleep. Maybe cracking open that close-held secret was all I needed to unburden me.
I don’tonlywant to tell a man though. Solange might not have been right about everything—I’m not convinced falling for an older man would ruin my focus—but she made good points about not relying on a guy.
“There’s something else,” I say, ready to tell Camden.
My friend sits up straighter at my tone. “What is it?”
I rip off the Band-Aid and tell her about the night Willa died, the thing my father said at her grave, and the way I’ve felt for six years.
When I’m done, she wraps her arms around me. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? I would have told you the same thing.It’s not your fault.”
“It was too awful,” I whisper.
“I hate that you thought that for so long.”
“Me too.”
She hugs me tighter, holds me closer, then lets go, eyes as sharp as her voice. “Are you going to talk to your dad?”
I wince. “Someday. Maybe.”
“Yeah, sometimes that’s all we can hope for. A someday. But I’m glad you told me. Because he’s just wrong.” She wags her finger playfully at me, narrows her eyes. “But I’m still mad you didn’t tell me till now.”
There’s something I can share just with her. “Do you want to see this card I keep in my journals?”
“Of course I do,” she says.
I grab the journal, then slide out the card. “I saw this card once in a gift shop, and I bought it. For myself.” I square my shoulders. “It’s, um, a sympathy card.”
“That tracks. Let me see it,” she says, holding out a hand.
“I haven’t written on it. I just like the quote. It’s fromThe Little Prince.” I read aloud, “In one of those stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing when you look at the sky at night.”
Camden’s eyes shine. “I love that. I believe that,” she says softly.
I believe it now too.
Taking the card, she studies it a little more, clearly weighing something before she speaks. “Maybe all the writing you do in your journals was what really helped you believe it wasn’t your fault. And then Finn just helped you close the door on your guilt.”
I give that some thought as I fiddle with the stars on my anklet, then I meet her eyes. “I think you’re right.”
* * *
The next night, after work, I shower and then break out my journal. I haven’t written in it since I left for Paris.
But tonight, I tell Willa what I did while I was there.
I don’t write a long letter. I still write in code because it makes me feel safe. But it’s not as obfuscated as it once was.
