More Than We Can Tell (Letters to the Lost #2)(4)

“Hey.” His dark eyes are full of concern now. “What’s going on?”

My thoughts are a tangled mess.

I should step off the letter, pick it up, and hand it to him. He could make it go away.

I think about my father. I hope you’ll make me proud.

I’m almost shaking from the inner conflict. I don’t want Geoff to know about it.

Geoff. Not Dad. My father already has a hold on me, and I’ve had this letter in my possession for fifteen minutes. Now that I’ve lied, I have to keep lying.

I do not like this feeling.

I can’t look at Geoff. “I said I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’m fine.” My voice is rough, almost a growl. “Okay?”

“Did something happen?”

“No.” My fingernails dig into my palms, and my heart races like it needs to outrun something.

“Rev—”

I finally snap my head up. “Would you just leave it?”

He waits a beat, and my anger hangs in the air between us for the longest moment. “Why don’t you come inside and talk to me?” His voice is low and mellow. Geoff is the master of chill. It makes him a good foster parent. It makes him a good dad. “It’s getting late. I was going to start dinner so we can eat when Mom gets home.”

“I’m going to Declan’s.”

I expect him to tell me no. I don’t realize how badly I want him to tell me no until he says, “All right.”

It’s not a rejection, but somehow it feels like one. All of a sudden I want to beg for forgiveness. For the lying, for the anger, for doing something that protects my father.

But I can’t. I pull up my hood and let hair fall across my face. My voice is penitent. “I’ll clean this up first.”

He’s silent for a long moment, and I fish the bowl off the ground, scooping the burned pieces into it, keeping my foot over the letter. My movements are tight and jerky. I still can’t look at him.

“Thanks,” he says. “Not too late, okay?”

“Yeah.” I fidget with the bowl and keep my eyes on the edge of it. A breeze teases at the hood of my sweatshirt, but it keeps me hidden. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t answer, and a nervous tension settles across my shoulders. I chance a glance up. He’s not on the porch.

Then I hear the sliding glass door. He didn’t even hear me. He’s gone back inside, leaving me out here with the mess.



My best friend isn’t home.

I’ve been waiting in the shadows like a criminal, sitting on the blacktop at the back corner of Declan’s driveway. The chill in the air wasn’t bad before, but it’s soaked into my bones now, freezing me in place.

Light shines through his kitchen windows, and I can see his mother and stepfather moving around inside. They’d invite me in if they knew I was out here, but my brain is too heavy with panic and indecision. I fish out my phone to send him a text.

Rev: Are you working?

Dec: No. Movies with J. What’s up?

“J” is Juliet, his girlfriend. I stare at my phone and focus on breathing. I hadn’t realized how much I was counting on Declan being here until he wasn’t.

I uncurl from the shadows and start walking. I can’t go home, but I can’t stay here unless I want to freeze to death. I should go to the gym, but they teach beginners on Thursdays, and if I rolled with someone tonight, they might not walk away from it.

I must be silent too long, because Declan sends another message.

Dec: Are you OK?

My fingers hesitate over the face of the phone. I’d been ready to tell him about the letter, but now … it doesn’t feel right.

I force my fingers to work.

Rev: All OK. Have fun. Hi to J.

My phone rings almost immediately. It’s him.

“What’s going on?” he says in a rushed whisper. I wonder if he’s actually calling me from inside the movie theater.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” My voice is rough and low.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Declan knows every secret I have. It’s not like me to be reticent.

“Do you need me to come home?” he says quietly.

His tone reminds me of Geoff. Like I need to be handled. Maybe I do, but I don’t like the reminder.

I force my voice to be easy. I get halfway there. “Yeah, will you pick me up a pint of chocolate ice cream, too? Dude. No. You’re at a movie.”

“Rev.”

“It’s nothing, Dec.”

“Something happened.”

“Nothing happened. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I push the button to end the call.

Something is definitely wrong with me.

My cell phone buzzes almost immediately.

Dec: What is up with you?

My father sent me a letter and I don’t know what to do.

I can’t write that. Even thinking it feels weak and immature. I have a purple belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, but I can’t deal with three lines of chicken-scratch on a piece of paper that showed up in the mailbox.

Rev: It’s nothing. I’m fine. Sorry to bother you.

He doesn’t write back. Maybe he’s pissed. Or maybe I am.

Good. I don’t even know why that makes me happy.