“I…” she continues, stopping to sniffle once. I fold my arms and tilt my head to the side to watch her. I look at her with contempt, but I enjoy the view—of her struggling. I might as well enjoy the show.
“I used to just not know where you went…”
My brow pinches as she pauses to take a slow breath to steady herself. Where I went? She pulls my jacket from her body, folding it in half and handing it back to me. I look down at it, no intention of taking it from her. She’s being ridiculous. It’s cold outside, and her body is shaking.
“Just keep the jacket, Emma,” I protest. I’m not loud now.
“No. I don’t want it,” she says, her eyes meeting mine and leveling me with her temporary strength as she drops the coat at my feet. She swallows hard, as if this hurts. “You asked me who you are, Andrew. But I think maybe I never really knew. Whoever I met when I was a kid, that boy…he’s gone. I don’t know where he went. And I think maybe he never existed.”
I look down at my jacket, then back up to Emma, her arms hugging her body, her long hair wild in the night wind. She’s wearing a long-sleeved white shirt that’s thin enough the wind forces it against her skin, showing every curve of her body. My eyes scan lower to her jeans and the Converse on her feet, so much of her still that girl, still trapped in the past.
“Why did you come here? Was it just to tell me some poetic shit that I already know?” I ask.
Her eyes soften into pity as she begins to take a step back in the direction of her apartment. It’s late, and freezing, and I’m pretty sure she followed me here by foot. I shouldn’t let her walk home alone. But then again, she shouldn’t have come here in the first place, so kind of her fault.
“I hope you really like Lindsey…” she says. My mouth flinches because I don’t want to accept her statement. I don’t want to deal with her statement.
I bend down and grab my jacket, slinging it over one shoulder as I salute her with my other hand.
“Have a safe walk home, Emma. Maybe next time you drop by, you’ll start being honest with yourself,” I say over my shoulder, as angry with her as I was before her impromptu visit, but maybe now for other reasons.
“I won’t be back,” she says. “In fact, I plan on never seeing you again.” She turns and walks away with purpose, back to where she came from, her stride fast, confident, and maybe…free.
“Fuck!” I yell when I’m sure she can no longer hear me. I tug on the sleeve of the jacket in my hands, ripping a seam in the middle.
When I come inside, Trent is just where I left him, but I’m no longer in the mood to deal with his psycho-babble-shit, so I throw my jacket onto the coffee table and walk right by him into my room, slamming the door behind me.
“This is one of those bad ideas, Harper,” he says through my door a few seconds later. “We all have them, but you went ahead and put it into action. Just…stop now.”
“Shut the fuck up, Trenton. I don’t need you to tell me things I already know,” I say, pulling my pillow up over my face and ears. It won’t matter; I can’t drown out the voice in my head. Turns out, I can’t drown out Trent, either.
“I kinda think you do, Harp. Otherwise you wouldn’t make such shitty decisions,” he says.
I open my mouth to swear at him again, but I decide against it, sighing instead. I smack my hand on the base of the lamp next to my bed, turning out my light, then I flip to my side to plug my phone into it’s charger—setting my alarm to make sure I’m up in time to drive to Woodstock and endure more criticism and advice from my family.
I used to just not know where you went.
It’s that one thing she said that drums in my head when I close my eyes. It was in there, with all of those other things she said. But it’s that one thing that hit my ears as if she were assaulting me with her words. That one phrase, it felt important, and I was too angry to stop and acknowledge it, to question it further.
One question, really.
Don’t you know, Emma? Don’t you know where I went?
Chapter 11
Emma Burke, Age 16
“I’m scared,” I say under the comfort of my mom’s hand on my forehead. I won’t admit this in front of my dad. As strong as he is, I’m his weakness. My mom—she’s the one who can handle life’s imperfect parts, but my dad, he doesn’t like to know I have nightmares or misgivings or regrets.
“It’s okay to be scared,” she says, her smile soft. “But…” she scoots in closer to me on the bed, moving the long tubes and cords out of our way, “it’s also okay to be hopeful. And excited. And driven, or curious, or the millions of other things you get to feel now.”