More Than We Can Tell (Letters to the Lost #2)(6)

“I’m a senior.”

He’s a year ahead of me. I study his shadowed form.

And then I have it. I don’t know what his name is, but I know who he is. The hoodie should have been an immediate giveaway, because he’s always wearing them. I’ve heard kids call him the Grim Reaper, but I’m not sure if he knows that. He doesn’t have a dangerous reputation, just one of freakish interest. I don’t really know him, but I’m aware of him, the way outcasts are always aware of each other.

I completely realign my immediate fear and start to think of other reasons a teenager might be sitting in the darkness.

“Are you okay?” I say.

He shakes his head. “No.”

He says the word so simply, without much emotion, that it takes me a moment to process that he said no. His hands are buried in Texy’s fur, and she’s leaning into him.

I glance at my phone lying in the grass. “Do you want me to call someone?”

“I don’t think so.”

I sit down in the grass. It’s cold and almost damp. “Did something happen to you?” I ask quietly.

He hesitates. “That’s kind of a loaded question.”

It is? “Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone?”

“I’m sure.”

We sit there in silence for a while. Texy rests her head in his lap, her neck under his arm. His hand remains buried in her fur, until she begins to look like a life preserver, and he’s clinging for dear life.

Eventually, he looks up at me. I’m not sure how I can tell—the hood only moves a few inches. “Do you believe in God?”

My night could seriously not be more surreal. I wet my lips and answer honestly. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t challenge me, which I was worried about. “There’s this verse I like,” he says. “ ‘The one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.’ ”

My eyes narrow. “Are you quoting the Bible?”

“Yes.” He says this like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “You know what I like about it? I like how it makes doubt seem inevitable. It’s okay to be unsure.”

I blink and let that sink in. This should be off-putting, but somehow it’s not. It feels like he’s sharing a piece of himself.

I wish I knew his name.

“I like that, too,” I say.

He says nothing for the longest moment, but I can feel him evaluating me. I stare back at him—well, at where I think his eyes are. I’ve got nothing to hide.

“Did you figure out how you know me?” he says.

“I’ve seen you around school.”

“Do you know anything about me?”

The question feels heavier than it should be, which tells me there’s a lot more to his story than the fact that he wears hoodies. “So far, all I know is that you like to sit beside churches and quote the Bible,” I say. “And I’ve learned that in the last two minutes.”

He gives a soft laugh that carries no humor.

“Why did you ask if I believe in God?” I ask.

He grimaces and looks away. “I forget how much of a freak I sound like when I say things like that.”

“You don’t sound like a freak.”

He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I got this letter in the mail, and I was sitting here trying to figure out what to do.”

He doesn’t extend the letter toward me, and I wait for him to say more. When he doesn’t, I say, “Do you want to share?”

He hesitates, then holds it out. I unfold the creased paper, and dark flakes drift off into the grass. I read the three short lines and try to figure out why they’re upsetting.

I glance back at him. “Someone sent you a burned letter?”

“I did that. The burning.”

I wet my lips. “Why?”

“Because that letter is from my father.” A pause. “I haven’t seen him in ten years.” Another pause, a heavier one. “For reasons.”

“Reasons,” I echo. I study him, trying to identify the emotion I hear in his voice. Trying to figure out what would inspire someone to burn a letter after not seeing someone for ten years. At first I thought it might be anger, because there’s a thread of that in his voice, but it’s not.

When I figure it out, I’m surprised. “You’re afraid,” I whisper.

He flinches—but doesn’t correct me. The fingers brushing through Texy’s fur are tight, almost white-knuckled.

I consider my hypercritical mother, my laid-back father. We’ve argued, but I’ve never been afraid of them.

For reasons.

Abruptly, he unfolds from the ground. He’s bigger than I expected, tall and lean with broad shoulders. He moves like a ninja, all silent, fluid motion.

Looking at him now, I can’t imagine him being afraid of anything.

But then he says, “I need to go home.”

He sounds a little spooked, so I’m surprised when he puts out a hand to help me up. He’s strong. His grip makes me feel weightless.

Once I’m on my feet, he doesn’t move. Light from somewhere catches his eyes and makes them glint under the hood. “Thank you.”

“For what?”