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Table of Contents 12 страница




I nod, my grin slipping away. I flip through the pages again. “He didn’t win, Bec.”

“No. Atticus failed.” She sighs, dropping her head onto my shoulder. “That’s what makes the story so good.”

I scoff. “How is it good to lose? No wonder I hate reading. Literature is weird.”

Becca laughs. “Sometimes life is like that, you know. It smacks us when we’re down. The brave get back up. At least, they do in the books.”

“Atticus is seriously kickass.”

“Duh,” she says, rolling her eyes at me.

I rest my cheek on her warm, brown hair. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Be brave,” she whispers, tucking her hand in mine like when she was three and I was five and our biggest fear was thunder.

 


5.6

 

The doorbell rings that evening as I’m putting the last of the dinner dishes in the dishwasher. Mom and Dad, lounging on the couch, shout, “Not it!”

“You guys are serious slackers tonight,” I say, drying my hands on a dishtowel. I snap it at them as I walk by the couch, and they both laugh.

“Some of us woke up before two in the afternoon,” Dad says, tweaking his mouth to one side, his mustache following suit.

Tossing the towel over my shoulder, I open the door.

“Merry Almost Christmas,” Charlotte cries. Her nose is pink from the cold and she’s holding a large stack of presents, the top one threatening to fall at any second. She looks much better than this morning. I was excited to see her wake up, but she was more concerned about not puking on me than talking books. Becca cleaned her up and took her home.

“Oh, wow, uh, Merry Christmas.” I step inside holding the door open. “Can I help you with those?”

“I don’t know, can you?” Her face lights up.

“You have to stop,” I say, catching a present as it topples.

“It’s hard to resist, but I’ll try.”

Charlotte brought us all gifts before she leaves for her dad’s. Becca opens a handmade copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, one of her favorites from childhood. Charlotte illustrated the story in bright watercolors and pen and ink sketches. The brown rabbit in the illustrations has Becca’s eyes. Inside, Charlotte inscribed it: For Becca, who is indeed a Real girl. Both Becca and Mom cry over each beautiful page.

While they are busy sharing the book, Charlotte hands me a flat package saying, “Merry Christmas, Other Charlie.”

I mean to smile, but end up frowning at the present instead. “I didn’t get you a gift,” I say.

Charlotte’s smile doesn’t fade. “I have everything I need. Open this, and use it well. It’ll be your present to me.”

I hold her gaze for as long as I can before it hurts too much. I tear back the paper revealing a journal. The pages are blank inside, but on the cover Charlotte has drawn a complicated pattern of birds beginning with a point in the center and radiating outward. Each set of birds gets smaller as they approach the edge of a large circle.

“What is this?” I say, tracing one of the birds.

“It’s a mockingbird.” My head snaps up to study her, but she’s still looking at her work. There are so many questions.

“Mockingbird?”

“There’s one outside my window at Jo’s house. Sings even in the middle of the night. Unusual birds, but I do love them.”

I swallow a knot in my throat. “But what is this?” I ask trying to indicate the piece she’s drawn as a whole.

Charlotte smiles, this wide glorious thing that makes my brain hum. “It’s a fractal.”

The humming in my head speeds to my chest; filling it with so much sound it may explode. “You know what a fractal is?”

Charlotte wrinkles her nose. “Not exactly. Becca explained it to me.”

“Becca Hanson? My sister explained fractals to you?” Becca looks up at her name. Noticing the book in my hand, she smiles even more widely.

“Of course,” Charlotte says. “All I remember is something about repeating patterns and infinity. Oh, and there’s some geometry in there, too.”

“Ya think?”

Charlotte chuckles, and tucks a curl behind her ear. “I learned to draw one by studying M.C. Escher. You’ve heard of him, right?”

I try to focus. I try not to pull the errant curl back out so it can curl along her cheekbone again. “Escher’s the dude with the stairs.”

“Yep. Pretty amazing what happens when you combine math with art.”

I trace the flying mockingbirds as they soar outward in an infinite plane.

“You’re the amazing one.” I say it before I even think it. It’s like the humming inside of me couldn’t stay contained and what it sounds like on the outside is “Absolutely amazing.”

Charlotte quirks an eyebrow as her cheeks flush. It makes her even more irresistible so the feeling of wanting to pull her into a kiss comes rushing back.

Unfortunately (or fortunately—I don’t know anymore), Becca throws her arms around Charlotte, tackling her back into the couch pillows with a hug. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” she’s murmuring as she squeezes Charlotte. “Come on,” she says, dragging Charlotte up to her room.

Studying the infinite set of mockingbirds that Charlotte has placed in my hands, I begin to understand this one simple truth: the thing I want most in this world is the thing I am most assuredly going to lose—Charlotte Finch.

I take my journal up to my room and brood over it. Charlotte said I should use it well, but I have no idea what that means. I dig in my desk drawer for a pen, but I freeze once I’ve found one and am poised to write in the book. For a second, I think I might write out Cantor’s Infinity Proof, but the madness passes. Nothing I could ever write would be equal to Charlotte’s brilliant artwork.

I close the journal and watch the mockingbirds soar on the cover. I begin counting them, but the pattern is so intricate I lose count around eighty every time. I’m not sure how long I’ve been counting when I hear Mom hollering for me from the foyer.

When I reach the bend in the front stairs, I see Mom and Dad and Becca all crowding around Charlotte and wishing her happy holidays and a safe trip. I can’t help but notice how close she’s standing to the ugly, plastic mistletoe Dad hangs up each year. She’s one step away.

Everyone says good-bye and Happy New Year, and I toss in a wave before the door closes behind Charlotte.

My chest thuds with the sound of the lock clicking.

Without a real plan, I run back upstairs and grab the book I stole. I’m out the door in the freezing cold and calling, “Charlotte.”

She meets me on the bottom step of the porch.

“I do have something to give you.”

Charlotte stretches out her hands, and I place her book in them. Confusion flickers over her porcelain features.

“I took it.”

Charlotte thumbs through the book. “Why?”

“I wondered about Atticus.” Charlotte’s expression masks her feelings. I hurry on, “I know now I shouldn’t have taken something so special.” The words pour onto the open pages of the book. I lean closer, choking on my fear and a hungry need to erase all the space between us.

Charlotte’s eyebrows knit low over her eyes. I freeze. She closes the book, and her fingers linger on the spine. “You read it?”

I nod. I’m inches from Charlotte. Ensconced by her perfume.

“And?”

“I liked it.” I cup her face. “A lot.” I can see our breath meet in the cold air. She closes her eyes, tucking an entire ocean behind her lids.

When our lips meet, it’s as if all the answers I’ve been looking for explode and burn in hot licking flames that flare, then smolder. The ashes of those answers blow away, and I realize, I don’t need them. I need this—Charlotte’s warm lips moving against mine, like lines of poetry strung together on a hyperbolic plane. Her tongue caresses my bottom lip, and when I sigh, it is an invitation for her to explore more of me.

Her fingers clasp the back of my neck, pulling me closer. My heart races and my hands ache to hold her. I rest them on her shoulders, but they feel so fragile, too small. I place one on the back of her neck, slipping my fingers under her scarf, but the bones of her spine meet my fingertips and I pull them away. I cup her face again, but by now I’m concentrating on all the wrong things, and Charlotte knows it.

She sinks back on her heels to look up at me, her expression bereft. She went against her better judgment, letting me in even though we said we couldn’t do this, couldn’t hurt Becca, and I let my insecurities take over and ruin the moment. I swallow and try to say I’m sorry, but it comes out as a sigh. I draw my thumb across her cheek and try again, “Charlotte—”

“Charlotte!” Dad’s voice echoes mine as he emerges on the porch. “You forgot—” The words die on his lips. Charlotte’s keys dangle in his outstretched hand.

Charlotte pulls away, her teeth closing around her bottom lip. “Thanks, Mr. Hanson.” She grabs the keys and backs toward her car, waving. “Well, I’ll see you all next year, I guess.”

I watch her drive away, not wanting to face Dad. When I do turn, his look, like everything else, is complicated.

 


5.7

 

Christmas break sucks. I am drowning my sorrows with cookie dough and cold milk, waiting for Dad’s first batch of cookies to come out of the oven when Mom comes in from getting the mail and announces that a package has arrived. A chill wind sneaks in behind her, but she back kicks the door closed.

Tossing the mail aside, she sets the package on the island. “Cookies?”

“Almost,” Dad says, opening the oven door so the kitchen fills with the aroma of sugar and goodness.

Mom turns her attention back to the package. “Open it, Charlie. Aunt Muriel said she sent you something. Maybe that’s it. Her gifts are so cute.”

I tear open the package without looking at the label as Dad takes the first batch out and sets them on the counter. The cookies look much better than any old package from Aunt Muriel. Last year she sent me reindeer socks.

I abandon the box for a hot cookie instead. Mom opens it for me and reads the enclosed note, her mouth tightening as she’s reading, so her lips all but disappear.

“You’ll want to open this, Charlie,” Mom says as she finishes reading the note. “And for heaven’s sake, let the cookies cool before you eat them.” She removes a little brown box from the package and pushes it into the middle of the kitchen island.

I’ve shoved the piping hot cookie into my mouth, which means I have to chew it with my mouth open to let the gooey steam escape. It’s the best way.

“Whaisit?” I garble through the molten cookie. Mom doesn’t say anything, though. She just watches me. I swallow in one big, burning gulp and tug the string on the gift box.

Inside, laid upon a large, white, starched handkerchief, is the most perfect orange rose I’ve ever seen. Its face is huge and open and soft, and its sweet aroma wafts around me. I’m transported back to the warmth of autumn and the big harvest moon Mrs. Dunwitty loved so much. This is one of her prize-winning roses, perfectly preserved.

Mom hands me the note, which is definitely not from Aunt Muriel..

There, in impeccably formed letters on pristine paper, Mrs. Dunwitty rats me out for driving over her garden. The rose is a token of her gratitude for my hard work repairing it. She had it freeze-dried to preserve it for me, which is actually pretty cool. She closed the letter with, “It’s not enough to be your best. You need to be someone else’s best, too. And since I’m old and running short on time, I’ll say it even more plainly so you don’t get confused. Kiss the girl, Jack.”

“You drove over her garden?” Mom asks.

I nod. Behind me, I hear my dad choke on a mouthful of cookies.

“When?” asks Mom.

“I don’t know. Late August?” I say as I brush the tip of my finger along the petals.

“And you didn’t tell us? And you’ve been driving around ever since? What else have you run over?” She’s getting louder with each question.

“Nothing. Just the garden, and I fixed it.”

“That’s good,” says my dad, licking crumbs from his finger.

My mother’s look says, “Not the point.”

Dad clears his throat and continues, “I mean it wouldn’t do to try to sell her house with the garden a mess.”

“Sell her house?” I look up from the rose.

“Haven’t you seen the sign in the yard?”

I haven’t mown Mrs. Dunwitty’s lawn since the first frost, just after Thanksgiving. I suddenly feel horrible for not inventing some other excuse to visit her. Her porch did need repainting. Why didn’t I do that? My thoughts are building to a crescendo.

“No!” Now it’s my turn to shout. “I haven’t seen any signs.”

Dad flicks a look at Mom like my fragile mind may be slipping again. Then he places a hand on my shoulder and explains, “Charlie, Mrs. Dunwitty’s son moved her to an assisted living home. She’s more comfortable this way. Keeping up with her house and garden was just too much work.”

That’s bullshit. Dimwit doesn’t need an old folks’ home. She’s not ready for a place to go and die.

“I’ve got some work to do upstairs,” I say, grabbing the box.

In my room, I sit in the center of my floor with the rose in my lap, its bright moony face peering at me from the box. I feel like an ostrich that wants to stick its head in the sand, but someone’s gone and filled in my head hole so I’m stuck facing all this crap.

Dimwit can’t die. Yes, she’s old, but it doesn’t feel right. She’s a permanent fixture in the neighborhood. She’s always been here with her roses blooming each summer, perfuming the street while she rocks on her porch with the flamingo-ass door, looking at every kid riding by on a bike like he might be her next meal.

Of course, this explains why her yard was looking shabby. And maybe the cane was for real and not just for threatening me with blunt force trauma. And there was the way her skin felt on my arm, dry and brittle, like a breeze might crumble her to pieces and carry her away.

I struggle to remember what she said the day we planted the roses. She smelled the big orange bloom and was transported back to her youth. She said a rose would smell differently to me because my experiences are unique. Actually, what she said was, “Perception is a powerful tool.”

I inhale the aroma of the rose in my lap. It smells like sadness now.

 


5.8

 

I’m driving to Greta’s for our annual New Year’s movie marathon. The sign in Mrs. Dunwitty’s yard catches my eye, even though I try to avoid it. The garden is shrouded in frost. And her house is—

“What the hell?”

I slam on the brakes and swerve for the curb. I stamp up to her porch to stare at the offending door. How could they? Dimwit would be mad. No, pissed. Mrs. Dunwitty’s once flamingo-pink door has been painted a respectable hunter green.

I fish out my cell phone as I jog back to my car.

“Where does Mrs. Dunwitty’s son live?”

“What?” Dad asks.

“You said he put her in an old folks’ home. I want to wish her a Happy New Year. Where is she?”

“Hold on,” he says. “I just got a Christmas card from Bill. I’ll find his address.”

Mrs. Dunwitty’s son lives two towns over. Luckily for me, it’s a town even punier than mine with only one retirement joint in the whole place right on the main strip. I pull into the parking lot, all screeching wheels and nervy driving.

I haven’t thought through what I’m about to do which is why my mind still hasn’t caught up to my body’s actions. Obviously, or I’d be sitting at Greta’s stuffing my face with popcorn instead of parking across two spots at a retirement home.

Still on autopilot, I leave the car and walk through the automatic doors that sigh shush as they open and close. Inside the door is a mahogany reception desk the size of Texas. My brain catches up and puts the brakes on my whole adrenaline-driven trip.

The receptionist smiles at me, a smear of pink lipstick on her left front tooth. I’m frozen on the entry mat so the automatic doors are shush ing like mad behind me. Open, close, open, close. Gusts of frozen wind blow in around me. The receptionist’s smile fades as she waves me in.

“Well come on now, sugar. You’re letting the cold air in,” she says, her polished southern accent and big hair making it okay for her to call a complete stranger “sugar.”

“Sorry,” I mutter and step away from the doors. They come to a close with a final shush. I can feel my ears burning and my palms are sweaty so I wipe them on the front of my jeans and shift from one foot to the other. “Um, I’m…um.”

Looking around I can see the Graceful Oaks Retirement Home is ready for a rip-roaring New Year’s Eve. Paper streamers and balloons are stuck to the beige walls. I move closer to the giant desk, dwarfing myself with each step. The receptionist is wearing a glittery top hat.

The brass nameplate at the desk tells me my sparkly receptionist is Debbie. Debbie looks like she hopes the shush ing doors open again so a winter wind can take me away. I try once more. “I’m here to see Mrs. Dunwitty.”

Debbie’s eyes widen. “Is she expecting you?”

“No,” I scoff and then regret it. Debbie doesn’t look impressed.

“Are you family?”

“Um. No. I’m her neighbor.”

Debbie looks dubious, her small eyes squinching together.

“I take care of her garden. Well, at first, I ran over her garden, then I took care of it.”

“Well,” she says, drawling the word out, “I’m not supposed to let unannounced guests—”

“I want to wish her a Happy New Year.” The words jumble out and land flat on her gigantic desk. “Please?”

“Sign in here,” she says, leaning forward like we’re co-conspirators. She points toward a set of double doors. “Room 112.”

Once inside, I take a huge breath to steady myself. I peek into an empty sitting room, furnished with squashy looking chairs and a television blaring some New Year’s celebration to an empty room. I notice a vase of roses set on a table in the back corner of the room. I duck in and grab it, and then speed-walk to room 112. I knock before my nerves can catch up. No immediate answer.

I knock again and call out, “Mrs. Dunwitty? It’s Charlie. Can I come in?”

May I come in, Jack.” The response is quiet, but unmistakable. Just as a nurse rounds the corner, I push open the door and step into the darkened interior room.

I can barely make out Mrs. Dunwitty lying in her bed. She has shrunk, shriveled into this strange old woman. My smile twitches as I clutch the stolen flowers like a shield.

“These are for you,” I say, placing them next to her bed. She turns to look at them and her eyes, still clear and razor-sharp grow with horror.

“Those are the ugliest fucking flowers ever. Where did you steal those? You better have stolen them. Please do not tell a dying woman you paid good money for those crappy excuses for roses. Didn’t I teach you anything at all? Get them out of here.” Her voice, shaky at first from disuse, grows stronger and louder with each grievance. “O-U-T, OUT.” She points a thin finger toward the door as her body is overrun with a spasm of coughing.

I snatch the flowers and run from the room, tossing them in a trashcan across the hallway. When I come back in, she is sitting up in her hospital bed. It makes a sluggish whirring sound, like even the beds in this joint are fixing to die. She looks me over, her eyes squinting and making me squirm. Finally, she smiles, a wide smile in a too-small face. Skeleton smile.

“It’s good to see you,” she says and pats the edge of her bed for me to sit.

The last thing I want to do is sit on this woman’s bed, but I’m afraid another outburst like the last one will do her in. I sit.

“So what brings you here?” she asks, and I can see if I consider a lie, even a half-truth, she’ll smack the back of my head.

“They painted your door,” I say.

She is quiet for a moment. “What color?”

I don’t want to answer. Why am I here? What was I thinking? I stare at the wide white tiled floor.

“That bad, eh?” she says with a chuckle.

I nod.

“Well, it’s to be expected.”

My eyes get wide. “What? What’s to be expected? They painted your door boring, totally okey-dokie, covenant-approved green. How can you be so calm?”

“Charles, it isn’t my door. Not technically. Who’s going to buy a house with a pink door?”

“Plenty of people,” I snap. Mrs. Dunwitty looks at me with a funny half smile. “Okay, fine. Nobody would want to live in a house with a flamingo-ass door. Happy? You’re the only person that insane.” I’m laughing now and she’s laughing, too.

“That’s my boy.”

Our laughing quiets and her hand is sitting pale and gray on her blanket. I remember the way it looked as it dug in the fertile soil of her rose garden, holding the delicate roots of plants and coaxing them into the dirt to grow and thrive. Without thinking, I reach out and pick up her hand, so tiny and weak now, in my own.

“Everything has changed.” My voice hurts as it tumbles out from my throat.

“That’s how gardens grow. I thought we’d already covered that,” Mrs. Dunwitty says, squeezing my hand.

“Yeah, but the changes never stop, and I can’t keep up. Like I’m holding tightly to the strings of so many balloons, but they’re coming untied and blowing away, and I’m left with this horrible tangle of strings. I don’t know how to get free of them. You’re—” I break off and look for the words.

“Dying,” she offers.

The tears are beating the hell out of my eyes, working to chip away the tiniest hole in the dam. I focus on her ashen hand and the way it trembles as I hold it.

“Charles, I’m old. Surely you’ve noticed.” She’s trying to make me smile.

I close my eyes and steal a shallow breath. She called me Charles. Making light. I play along. “Mrs. Dunwitty, no offense, but I’m pretty sure you’re older than Moses.”

“That’s my boy,” she repeats. “What’s going on? Why are you making my dying days such a suckfest?”

“Excuse me? Suckfest?”

Mrs. Dunwitty’s eyes twinkle.

“All right. I guess I can tell you everything, seeing as how you’re going to die in, like, ten minutes, which means you can’t go blabbing it everywhere.”

“Oh, I can get a lot done in ten minutes.”

“I’m sure you can.” I spill everything. I tell her about Brighton and Ms. Finch. I tell her about Charlotte and how she’s dying, and I don’t know what to think because shouldn’t the world keep the good ones around as long as it can?

“I guess it seems like a big waste. She’s young and kind and beautiful and talented and…” I stop, waiting for the words. “Unfinished,” I finally say.

Her smile is sad this time. “Unfinished is ungood.”

I laugh, but the sound tastes bitter. “These are your words of wisdom? Unfinished is ungood? Is ungood even a word? Thought you were brilliant—had all the answers.”

“Always did say you weren’t as bright as everyone claimed,” she says, but then stops and inhales sharply. I look at her face, alarmed. Her eyes are closed and her face is screwed up in pain.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Dunwitty?” I don’t like the way her face keeps going gray. I don’t like the way her breath is rattling. “Do I need to get a nurse?”

“No, no nurses. I’m fine.” She closes her eyes and rests her head back against the pillow. “So tell me more. Have you talked to Charlotte about your feelings?”

I rub my nose. “Not really. When I mentioned her cancer, she punched me.”

Mrs. Dunwitty laughs so hard she starts coughing again. I get her some water and wait for her breathing to quiet. She takes a sip and says, “I like this girl.”

“You’re not the only one,” I admit.

I tell myself it’s a trick of the light when her eyes change from clear to cloudy, like heavy summer skies. “And another thing—kiss the girl, Jack. With your whole body and soul, you kiss her. Ain’t nothing like it. Worth all the risks. Worth all the pain to be in that one moment. Why, my Darryl…” She slips under the spell of her memories.

I grin and fake a cough.

She squeezes my hand. “Now,” she says, back to business. “If you’re done crying your wussy heart out, I’m feeling tired.”

I stand next to her bed, fighting down a wedge of fear in my throat. “Happy New Year, Mrs. Dunwitty,” I say and kiss her on the cheek.

She smiles. “Not me, Jack,” she says, touching the spot on her cheek where I kissed her. “The other one.”

 


5.9

 

Driving home I make three New Year’s resolutions.

Resolution 1: I pat the head of the angel Charlotte helped me place in Mrs. Dunwitty’s garden as I walk around to her backyard. There’s a can of flamingo-ass paint (not the official name on the can) in her old tool shed, and I know just what to do with it. I glance down the street at the dark houses, but no one is out. Mrs. Dunwitty’s house is abandoned, waiting for sale with its stupid green door.

I stand under the freezing stars at Mrs. Dunwitty’s and paint the door its proper color. My fingers are numb stubs, and my brush strokes are uneven, and the paint is freezing before it hits the door, but as the last seconds of this year slip away, I stand back and smile.

Now that’s more like it.

I toss the paint and brush in the trash heap in my trunk, nodding at the small, broken angel statue I still haven’t thrown away. But as soon as I’ve slammed it closed I remember Mrs. Dunwitty’s lesson on properly keeping your tools, so I open it up again and pull the brush out. I trudge around to the side of the porch where the water spigot hides behind an angry bush whose branches keep scraping at my hands as I rub the brush under the freezing water, watching the pink run off into a Pepto-Bismol puddle. I use my coat to dry off the brush and put it back in my trunk.

My hands are as pink as Mrs. Dunwitty’s door. Pink and cracking in the cold night air, stinging as much as the warm tears I refuse to cry. Now it’s finished. Finished is good.

---

 

R esolution 2: I find Becca reading in her nest of blankets when I get home. My insides feel like an army of ants has moved in, wriggling and scurrying every which way. “We need to talk,” I say, flopping down on her bed. If I thought it took balls to kiss Charlotte, it’s nothing compared to the bravery I’m summoning for this conversation. “I kissed Charlotte.”

Becca closes her book around a finger to save her place. “I know.”

Wow. Did not see that coming. “Did Charlotte tell you?”

Becca nods. “She said you kissed her and she kissed you back, but that it was a mistake and it wouldn’t happen again.”

Mistake? Of course, I get my feelings all sorted out, and completely forget that Charlotte may not feel the same way. My ears, neck, face, chest—it’s all on fire. Becca puts a hand on my shoulder and I’m surprised she doesn’t get burned.

“Of course she was lying about the mistake thing. She just said that to make me feel better.”

Relief washes over me. “The thing is, Bec, I want to kiss her again. I want to take her out on a date. I want to be her boyfriend. But I need to know it’s okay with you.”

She runs her thumb along the spine of the book. “Guess I’d be a pretty big bitch right now if I said it’s not.”

“No.” I lock my eyes with hers. “I need the truth.”

She twists a lock of her hair. “I do worry that you’ll fuck it up.”

“Becca!” Dad pops his head in her doorway, a bushy brow raised, “Don’t say that word. I nearly had a heart attack out here.” He puts a basket of clean laundry on her floor before ducking back out again.

Becca claps her hands over her mouth, her cheeks flushing.

“That’s what I told her, Dad,” I holler after him, and then grin at Becca. “Language, missy.” I tsk at her, shaking my head.

My sister laughs. For the first time, I notice how musical her laugh is. Not quite like Charlotte’s, but alive with sound. I’m pretty sure Becca didn’t laugh like that before Charlotte. Becca didn’t laugh at all.

“I worry I’ll fuck it up, too.” I’m careful to whisper the f-word.

“Dad!” Becca shouts. “Charlie said f—”

I smack her with a pillow to shut her up and we get to laughing again.

She quiets and sets her face in an old-fashioned Becca way—serious. “Does it feel like love, Charlie?”

In the wake of her question, I struggle to draw a breath.

Becca waits.

“Love is an awfully big word. Even bigger than cancer.”

She nods. “And there’s no cure for it either.”

I don’t know if it feels like love, but what I feel seems bigger than myself, like I can’t contain it no matter what I do. And the feeling seems to spill over into other areas of my life, like with that book. I fell for Atticus and all those characters. And I’m seeing all sorts of things about Becca I never took the time to notice. Things I really, really love.

I nudge her knee with mine. “I never appreciated how amazing you were before, Becca.”

She blushes three shades darker, twirling her hair. “I love you, too, Charlie.”

“And whatever you decide about Charlotte, I will respect.”




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