37

Aster

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I tell myself I’m not going to cry, but the second I’m in my room, I collapse against the door and slide down to the floor, burying my face in my hands as the tears start to fall. I acted like I was letting Aidan cajole me into this trip, but I really wanted to go. I wanted a romantic cabin. I wanted peace and quiet and nature and s’mores and sex in front of a fireplace.

The sex. Ugh. God. I can’t even.

It was too much. Too good. We couldn’t have gotten any closer physically, but in other ways, we’d gotten closer than I’ve ever been with anyone, even Jerry. But just like the night I confronted Aidan about his deception, I’d once again I’d convinced myself I was strong enough to handle something, only to have the theory tested and proven untrue.

Before seeing my dad in the parking lot that night, if anyone had asked me what I’d do if I saw him again, I’d have said I’d do absolutely nothing. I’d hold my head high and stroll right past like he didn’t even exist. But the reality was nothing like that. His calm dismissal had shattered me, snapped any hope I had that our current circumstances were only temporary, a misunderstanding, fixable.

But some things you can’t fix.

I fumble for my duffel bag and stick my hand in the zippered compartment at the side until I find the wrinkled edges of an envelope. I pull it out, holding the corner between my fingertips and letting it dangle there like a talisman.

“You ruined my trip,” I murmur, but the envelope doesn’t burst into flames or do anything to show it’s possessed. It’s just an envelope.

I swipe the back of my hand across my cheeks, wiping away my tears, and pull out the single piece of lined paper, neatly folded into thirds. The first thing I see as it unfurls is my name at the top in my father’s terse handwriting, each letter written with as much economy as possible.

Aster, I read. It’s me.

I’m unwell. I don’t have long, and I don’t have anyone else. There is a lawyer who will handle the details, but I need someone to act as executor. I am leaving the house to you; perhaps you can sell it. There are some local groups to whom I would like to leave a few items. Please see to it that they receive them.

Goodbye,

Phillip Lindsey 

I read the last words a dozen times. Goodbye, Phillip Lindsey. Not, I love you. Not, I’m sorry. Not, how is school? Just...goodbye. The word we’d been running too fast to say when we left.

Phillip Lindsey. Like he was never my father. Like in all the years we’d been apart, he hadn’t learned a single thing. Still as stingy with his kindness as he’d always been. Maybe that’s why I fell for Jerry. He was so generous. With his time, his encouragement, his love. He was so completely and utterly open, drawing me in with his sheer newness and unfamiliarity.

I grab my phone and replay the lawyer’s voice message, then call back before I can talk myself out of it. The ringtone sounds ominous, like a time warp or a warning. After the third ring, a woman’s voice answers.  

“Good afternoon, Goldman Hartshorne Law,” she says.

“Hi,” I say, the word coming out scratchy. I try again. “Hi. My name is Aster Lindsey. I’m returning a call from Mitch Goldman.”

“Oh!” she exclaims, as though she’s been waiting to hear from me. “Just one moment, I’ll tell him you’re on the line.”

Tinned hold music starts to play, and before I can convince myself to hang up, the same male voice from the message comes on the line. “Ms. Lindsey,” he booms, managing to sound both stern and pleased to speak to me.

“Yes,” I say, trying to pretend I’m an adult and not a drama queen slumped on the floor of her dorm, tear-streaked and hungry. “I got your message.”

“We’ve been attempting to get in touch with you for some time,” he says. “We don’t have your exact mailing address—you’re at school, correct? Holsom College?”

“Yes.”

“Right, that’s what your father thought. Unfortunately the school registrar wouldn’t confirm or deny your enrolment, and our attempts to locate you were largely unsuccessful.”

PPP students are strongly encouraged to avoid all forms of social media. They’re possible links between our past and our present, a way for people we wish to avoid—or simply should avoid—to contact or to tempt us. And likewise, the school registrar has even more stringent procedures to follow before releasing the names of any of its students, like gatekeepers determined to keep the past out.

I consider the letter, now resting against my knees. It’s dated January 20. He sent it nearly two months ago, but because of the unspecific address it took a while to arrive, and even longer for me to open. Two months. Two months ago when I was in love with Jerry and Aidan was just his hot roommate. Two months ago when my days were an endless repeat cycle of going to class and coming home and seeing Jerry and going to class and coming home again. Two months ago when I didn’t make a road trip to a wedding or slap a man or kiss that man or have sex next to a picture perfect lake, icy water chilling my knees. Two months ago when I thought I’d fallen in love for the first and only time.

“Why have you been calling?” I ask, not sure if I want to hear what I’m expecting or not. Do I want him to be dead or do I want him to have found me?

Goldman takes a deep breath, and I know the answer.