Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 29029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
We were inseparable for so many years, until high school, when our interests diverged. He became a soccer jock and I… Well, I had a boyfriend for the first three years. Still, we never let our friendship suffer even though we were no longer joined at the hip.
My God…
“I’m not sure I can see him.”
Though I want to see him. I want to see him so badly. He was always my safe place.
More than he ever knew over the last years of my life.
“Only when you’re ready,” Mom says. “He’ll understand.”
“What’s he doing these days?”
“He’s doing well. He’s in marketing, I think. Dad and I haven’t seen him for a while, but I ran into Harriet at the grocery store a couple months ago.”
“Is he…with anyone?”
“He’s engaged, Harriet said. Her name is Mimi something.”
“Flaherty,” Dad says, without emotion. “Mimi Flaherty. That’s what you told me after you ran into Harriet.”
“What does she look like?”
I’m not sure why I asked. It came out of my mouth automatically. Back in the day, I always took notice of the girls Max went out with.
“I’m sorry,” Mom says. “I didn’t ask.”
“Oh.”
Of course. Why would my mother ask Max’s mother what his fiancée looks like? She’s probably blond. Max always had a thing for blondes.
I bite my lower lip. “I don’t know if I’m ready to see anyone.”
“You take your time,” Mom says.
Max. So many times we sat outside on our front porch laughing, talking. Eating popsicles. Making fun of the people who gave us grief as school. Max’s house didn’t have a front porch—only a stoop—but ours had a swing and a bench and a perfect panoramic view of the cul de sac where we used to play.
I close my eyes. I’ve only been home one night.
The front porch looks basically the same, except for a crack in the concrete in front of the door. The bushes Mom and I planted the summer before my senior year have grown. Red brick, green trim. A nice colonial two-story in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. Except for one glaring addition.
Security cameras and an alarm system.
Yesterday, when I walked into my home for the first time in eight years, a black Labrador Retriever barked at me.
“Where’s Lucy?” I asked Mom.
Mom squeezed my shoulder. “Honey, Lucy had cancer three years ago. We had to put her down.”
Of course. Eight years is an awful long time in dog years. Lucy was an adorable chocolate lab that I raised from a pup.
I don’t know what I was expecting. Mom didn’t mention it during our phone calls and visits while I was in my year of intensive therapy. She probably didn’t want to upset me more, but I wish she’d told me rather than blindside me like this.
But we’re all learning how to deal with this new normal.
“This is Lexi,” Mom said, petting the lab. “Easy, Lex. This is Jenna. She’s going to love you.”
I didn’t want to cry.
But I couldn’t help it. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks.
And all I wanted was Lucy. Her big brown eyes looking up at me, telling me everything was going to be okay. After Max, Lucy was my safe space on the island. Many times she sat invisibly at the foot of my hard bed, helping me through the horror. It never occurred to me she wouldn’t be here. Talk about a gut punch.
Mom pushes through my bedroom doorway, jolting me from my thoughts. She grabs me and hugs me, rubbing my back like she used to do when I was little girl. “You have all the time you need,” she says against my hair. “All the time in the world. Dad and I are here for you with whatever you need.”
“I know,” I say against her.
And they will do whatever they can. They’ll move mountains for me.
The only problem is?
None of that is what I need.
But one thing I do need. I need to see Max. My safe place.
I pull away from Mom.
She raises her eyebrows. “Honey?”
I inhale deeply. “I’d like to see Max.”
3
MAX
I’ll find her. I will find her if it’s the last thing I do.
The gallant words of an eighteen-year-old boy in love. And in denial.
I didn’t find Jenna, of course. But I tried. I distributed flyers, set up internet search parties, made hundreds of phone calls the summer before college.
Before I finally let myself mourn.
The floral scent of the white roses I’m carrying wafts toward me as I stand at the doorway to the Hollands’ two-story. Through the window next to the door, I see the formal living room—the room Jenna and I never sat in when we were growing up. The room that was always pristine, always ready in case Dick—an attorney—had to bring clients home for dinner at the last minute. The ivory suede sofa is still there, along with the marble-topped coffee table and the Ansel Adams book sitting atop it just so.