Chapter Seventeen
It’s after seven before I get home. Ryle called an hour ago and said he
wouldn’t be coming over tonight. The confushercackle (whatever that
big word he used was) separation was a success, but he’s staying at the
hospital overnight to make sure there aren’t complications.
I walk in the door to my quiet apartment. I change into my quiet
pajamas. I eat a quiet sandwich. And then I lie down in my quiet
bedroom and open my quiet new book, hoping it can quiet my
emotions.
Sure enough, three hours and the majority of a book later, all the
emotions from the last several days begin to seep out of me. I place a
bookmark on the page where I stopped reading and I close it.
I stare at the book for a long time. I think about Ryle. I think about
Atlas. I think about how sometimes, no matter how convinced you are
that your life will turn out a certain way, all that certainty can be
washed away with a simple change in tide.
I take the book Atlas bought me and put it in the closet with all my
journals. Then I pick up the one that’s filled with memories of him.
And I know it’s finally time to read the last entry I wrote. Then I can
close the book for good.
Dear Ellen,
Most of the time I’m thankful you don’t know I exist and that I’ve never
really mailed you any of these things I write to you.
But sometimes, especially tonight, I wish you did. I just need someone to talk
to about everything I’m feeling. It’s been six months since I’ve seen Atlas and I
honestly don’t know where he is or how he’s doing. So much has happened
since the last letter I wrote to you, when Atlas moved to Boston. I thought it
was the last time I’d see him for a while, but it wasn’t.
I saw him again after he left, several weeks later. It was my sixteenth
birthday and when he showed up, it became the absolute best day of my life.