Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Burton?”
“That’s it. I take it my father wasn’t put into foster care because his real mother died, like I was told?”
“No, she abused him. The same way he abused others. She went to prison.”
Noah swallows. “Is it all right if I get out of the truck? I think I’m going to be sick.”
I nod.
Noah hops out of the pickup and jogs around to the back. He bends over, hands on his knees, and empties the contents of his stomach. After, he dry heaves for a long time. Eventually, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and walks back to the still-open car door. “I don’t know what to say. Sorry for my fucked-up family doesn’t seem like enough.”
“If you’re not sending me the chapters, then who is?”
“I wish I knew. I’d help you if I could. I swear I would. You’ve been through so much already.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “You have any other questions for me?”
I’m certain I do, but my mind is too jumbled to do this anymore, so I shake my head.
Noah nods. “Will you be home if I go get the Polaroids and come back?”
“Yes. But just leave them in the mailbox.”
He smiles sadly and nods as he climbs back into his truck and pulls the door closed. Noah starts the ignition but then turns it off again. “Hey.”
I look up.
“It’s probably not the right time to say this. In fact, I know it’s not. But I get the feeling this might be the last time I get the opportunity, so I’m going to say it anyway.”
“What?”
He smiles, and his adorable dimples make an appearance. “I really did like you, Elizabeth. That’s why I was paying you attention. You’re different from other women.”
I shake my head. “I’m different because I’m fucked up, Noah. And that’s because your father made me this way.”
CHAPTER
44
It’s time to go home. Past time, really.
Two days later, the house cleanout is nearly done. My bedroom is the biggest task left, but I took anything of importance when I ran out of here two decades ago. Anything still remaining is going to the garbage, so it won’t take me long. Mom’s mattress and box spring still need to go, too, along with the set in my room, and a dozen bags in the garage.
When I sit down to book a flight, the earliest I can get is tomorrow in the late afternoon. Perfect. I hit purchase and enter my credit card. I’ll clear out my room and be done by tonight. Then I’ll get back to my life. Speaking of which, I need to text my boss and tell her I’ll be back in two days. I miss my job. In some ways it’s never seemed like much, but after these last weeks, months of realizations, it now feels like so much more—like it saved me. I really did escape this place and start over, thanks to Mr. Hank and my career. I think I’ll go see him next weekend, bring a box of donuts and bask in his smile while he enjoys them.
I stall for an hour before finally making my way to my bedroom. When I do, I sit on the decades-old carpeting, feeling hollow inside my chest. This place is untouched since I left at seventeen, from the pink comforter to the posters on the wall, secured with thumbtacks. There are even stuffed animals still lining a little toy chest I have a vague memory of someone handing down to me.
I settle in front of the bed and reach beneath it. The first box I pull out has Valentines from grade school. I nearly smile—for some reason, I kept these. Maybe because they were claims that people cared about me: Please be my Valentine and Sweet on you, along with two-decade-old cheap candy. I toss the entire thing into a trash bag and reach for the next box.
Stacks of photographs.
It momentarily rocks me, thinking about the Polaroids I burned in the backyard yesterday. But these aren’t photos like that. These are photos of me and Ivy and Lucas—hanging out in a parking lot, wandering by a stream on the outskirts of town. Ivy and me hugging in a classroom, wearing ridiculous clothes we thought were cute and sexy back when we were teenagers. Our hair was straightened so much it looked frayed, and we were so incredibly skinny, I now realize. But we looked happy, innocent—little idiots who had no idea what the world was about to throw at us. These memories aren’t bad, but they’re my past, and that’s staying here. So I crumple the photo in my hand, add the entire box to the bag of trash. When I go back to New York, I’m going back to pretending my life started when I was eighteen.