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“Yes.” Mom’s quiet for a minute before she says softly, “Lucy, honey, I—”
“I’ve got to go, Mom. I’ll see you when you get home,” I interrupt.
“Right. Okay, well, I’ll be home soon. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up and stare down at the box in front of me. I think it’s strange how humans can shove memories down so deep we can pretend they don’t exist. Then one day, it’s like finding a bit of thread on your jeans. You tug at it, and suddenly there’s a hole in your knee.
I’ve found a thread, and I can’t help but pull at it.
Staring at these notebooks, I remember. I remember sitting up here in my room pouring my heart out onto paper. Sometimes what I wrote was so raw it hurt to even read it. Sometimes I wrote about different worlds, and I created characters to fill a loneliness I couldn’t explain. And sometimes I just wrote simply for the feel of the pen and paper in my hand.
I had so many emotions, so many thoughts and so many dreams that I couldn’t contain it all in my head. So, I wrote. And I don’t know when or why I stopped, but God, looking at all of the journals I realize, I miss it. I reach into the box and pull out another notebook, opening it toward the middle, and a folded-up piece of paper slips out. I recognize my dad’s handwriting on the back and my hands shake as I unfold it.
My Dear Lucy,
Today, you are eighteen. You graduated high school, as valedictorian no less. You told me, today, you wanted to go to medical school and become a surgeon. And a part of me could not have been prouder. But sweetheart, there is something I need you to know. I, like you, find it so much easier to share my thoughts on paper instead of out loud. When you gave your valedictorian speech a few weeks ago, your words brought tears to my eyes. I watched the faces of your fellow classmates. I saw Allie wipe away tears and I saw a few of those mean girls blush with both embarrassment and fury. I saw a few boys look at you with awe, and with a look that makes a dad feel the need to scowl. You inspired those kids that day, Luce. Just with your words. And in that moment, I don’t think I have ever been prouder of you.
I don’t want to embarrass you, but sometimes when you fall asleep, I take a peek at whatever notebook you’re currently scribbling in. And my god, kid, you can write. I don’t say that just because I am your father, I say that as a man who loves books—who loves words. Who loves stories. Of course, sometimes you treat the notebooks as diaries, and I try not to invade your privacy too much when I see those entries. But the blurbs that you write of the princess who frees herself from the tower and befriends a dragon, or the superhero who can fly, which is awfully inconvenient considering her fear of heights . . . those are magic, kid.
When you told me today you wanted to become a surgeon, my heart ached a little, because a part of me knew you were doing this because of me—because you want to make me happy, make me proud. And I am, please don’t misinterpret me. If you pursue medical school, I have no doubt you will become this hotshot surgeon I brag about to every single person I know. But, Lucy, please don’t stop writing. Don’t stop dreaming. Because I think, if you really nurtured that wonderful imagination of yours, something amazing could come from it.
Your words have power. I have always told you that, and I believe it wholeheartedly, especially after reading yours. I will never push you to be someone you are not. I will never push my own dreams on you. But if you think, even the slightest bit, that you want to pursue writing, do it. If there’s any doubt in your mind about the medical field, listen to that doubt. That goes for anything in your life. If you find something, or someone, that brings you joy, don’t let it go.
When you were six, you were fascinated with stars. You liked to make up your own constellations and come up with names. One night, you and I laid in the backyard coming up with our own constellations. You pointed at the moon and said, “I’m going up there one day, Daddy. I’m going to see the moon and the stars and all the planets. And I’ll wave at you from there, do you think you’ll still be able to see me from here?” I know you don’t remember that, and I know you don’t remember me promising, “No matter where I am, I’ll see you. Always.”
Be brave enough to go after the stars, Lucy. And when you conquer those, dare to take on the moon and the planets and the galaxies. One universe will never be big enough for you.
Love, Dad
I don’t know when I started crying, but there were teardrops covering that sheet of paper. I crawl up onto my bed and look up at the ceiling, a silent sob escaping me.
“Can you see me, Daddy? Wherever you are, do you still see me?” I whisper to the ceiling.
Chapter Twelve
Wyatt
Ihaveadatetonight. More specifically, I have a date withLucytonight. And I’m so terrified and nervous I almost threw up before I left the house. I’m wearing a blue and white striped button-up shirt—one that I actually ironed—and dark jeans. I even have gel in my hair. It’s been years since I’ve tried this hard for a date. But it’s Lucy, and I want . . . I want to try.
I turn into her neighborhood and take a few deep breaths. My hands are sweaty and my stomach is doing somersaults. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea. I pull into her driveway and see not just her silver Honda, but also a white Toyota Camry that must be her mom’s. Oh god, I’m going to throw up.
I grab my phone to text Lucy.
Me:Hey, I’m here.
Lucy:Okay, I’ll be ready in like three minutes. You can come in if you want.
Lucy:Or not, up to you.
Lucy:I can feel you panicking from here, dude. Calm down. This doesn’t have to be a big deal if you don’t want it to be. Just come in.
I snort a laugh. She’s right, I need to calm down. It’s just Lucy. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, take another deep breath, then step out into the night air. It’s the beginning of June, and the evening air has started to turn a little muggy.
I walk up the steps of Lucy’s front porch and take one more deep breath before knocking on her door. It opens a second later, a woman, who looks startlingly similar to Lucy, stands in front of me.
“Hi.” I smile shyly. “I’m Wyatt Hayes.”
