Be Not Far from Me(48)

I tell the ugly truth about all of it, about losing my head and swearing at squirrels, about finding Davey Beet and lying down to die and waking up alive and being irritated by that fact. I don’t hold back, and people seem to like that. So much so that we start getting phone calls.

Dad tells the first few that I’ve said everything I have to say and then hangs up, but one day he has a conversation I’m half listening to from the living room as I flip through channels, looking for a baseball game, my still-bandaged foot propped on the coffee table.

“Ashley,” he says, phone tucked against his shoulder. “I think maybe you should talk to this guy.”

It’s an outdoors outfitting company, wanting me to be a spokesperson, which is kind of funny considering I survived out there in a sports bra. But there’s money involved, and all the equipment I could ever need.

I say yes.

It’s a year before I’m able to do what comes next.

I get through my senior year, graduate, and do all the things the old Ashley needed to do, but all my goals have changed. I say everything that needs to be said to Meredith and Kavita, and to Duke, even Laney Uncapher. It doesn’t fix everything, and I’m not dumb enough to think it would. Meredith still irritates the shit out of me sometimes, and I can’t help the swell of jealousy in my gut when I go to Kavita’s races. It matches the one I feel when I hear that Duke is living with Natalie after we graduate, and I can’t tell myself that I don’t care.

I do, but the world is not tame and neither are people, or how I feel about them.

It’s spring and I’m standing at a trailhead, a pack of the best gear that exists on my back and a special pair of shoes the company made just for me, balanced out so that I feel like I’ve got a whole foot. I’ve got a handheld GPS and even a personal tracker that Dad insisted on so that I can send a message if I need help. There’s a pack of pens and an empty notebook in there too, to take notes for a writer who wants to tell my story. When she contacted me, I told her my story wasn’t over yet.

So here I am, listening to the sound of Dad’s truck fading away as he leaves. I’ve got Davey Beet’s hat on my head and my old blanket too, though his mom remade the top of his hat and gave it back to me and insisted on washing the mold out of my meth blanket. They’re my same old things, just better versions for this part of the trip, and I guess that only makes sense, since it’s true of me too.

I’m going to find Davey Beet. I’m going to bring home the boy who showed me how to survive. Then I’m going to live every day remembering that’s what we’re all doing, each in our own way.

But nobody wants to do it alone.

I hike up my pack and square my shoulders.

And I go back into the woods.





Acknowledgments


This is my ninth published book, and writing the acknowledgments is a lesson on how often you rely on the same people. Eternal thanks to my agent, Adriann Ranta Zurhellen, who rolls with everything I throw at her and reins me in when necessary. She’s a keeper. This is my fifth book with my editor Ben Rosenthal, who I truly appreciate—not many authors have the freedom to experiment across genres. Ben takes chances with me, and I may revel in that a bit.

Cover designer Erin Fitzsimmons continues to astonish and amaze. She’s covered all my books and I’m constantly hearing from readers, fans, and publishing insiders that I get the best covers. That’s because I have the best cover designer.

The entire team at Katherine Tegen is a treasure, and I truly believe there is no better imprint to be with. There’s support, communication, and thoughtful exchange—and that’s not always the case in this industry.

As always, my friends and fellow writers are indispensable. Thank you to Kate Karyus Quinn, Demitria Lunetta, Natalie D. Richards, and R.C. Lewis, for just being you, and letting me be me . . . which I totally know is sometimes a lot.

Lastly, a big thanks to my people—librarians, educators, and readers. This is my fan base. It’s because of you continuing to pick up my books and recommend them to friends that I have the opportunity to be a writer. Without readers, writers don’t exist.

And—honestly, go ahead and recommend my books to your enemies, too.