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Jack: Lee wants to know what you want for dinner.
Me: Then he can text me himself.
45
Jack: So that’s it, we’re going to keep tiptoeing around each other like this?
Me: I’m not tiptoeing. I’m just living my life.
Jack: Living your life avoiding me.
Jack: I get it. I deserve it.
Me: Don’t put this on me. You’re the one who’s up every morning before everyone and out the door, then back after everyone’s gone to bed or secluding yourself in your room.
Jack: Really. So if I tried to talk to you at home or sit with you, you’d allow it?
Me: Wouldn’t you have to email my father first and ask if he’d allow it?
Me: What, no response?
Me: That’s what I thought, Jack.
46
Jack: I hate this. I miss you.
Nate: I miss you.
Nate: Can’t stop thinking about you, Abbey.
Nate: Are you just going to keep leaving me on read?
Me: If you keep texting things like that, then yeah. My heart can’t take it.
Nate: I’m sorry. I’ll stop.
MARCH
47
FEBRUARY SLIPPED THROUGH MY FINGERS. MARCH SNUCK UP ONme while my back was turned. Then before I know it, spring break is a week away, stalking me through the tall grass. I wanted to have my Tulley paper done before the break, and it mostly is. I just wish I had a resolution for Josephine. A proper ending other than “Who the hell knows what happened next?”
But I’m at a dead end.
Amelia and I are peer editing for each other, and she’d lamented about Josephine’s unknown fate in the margins of my paper when she sent it back last night. Her research tome on the killer prostitute gang was brilliant, of course. Mine still feels unfinished.
Fortunately, on Monday morning, I receive two encouraging emails.
The first is from the clerk at the Northern Star Line, now called Global Cruise Initiatives. His name is Steve, and he was supposed to be hunting any relevant documents connected to theVictoria. It’s been months with no word from him, so I assumed that was another dead end. But he surprises me, writing to say he’s attached some digital copies of the original passenger manifest as well as documents pertaining to insurance payouts for survivors of the disaster. The latter isn’t too helpful, given that it’s confirmed William Tulley died on the ship, but the former would go great in my appendix.
The second development comes from Ruby Farnham. Her email pops up as I’m meeting Celeste outside a tiny diner near her campus. We’re squeezing in a quick lunch today between classes.
“Hello, darling,” she greets me.
As we walk inside, I attempt to read the email and remove my coat at the same time.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re an atrocious multitasker?” Celeste inquires politely after I wind up tangled in my sleeve with my phone lost somewhere in the bowels of my coat.
