I enter Professor Pritchard’s office with hesitation.

His voice betrayed nothing when he called to say he’d finished reading my manuscript and would like me to come to his office to discuss it. The feedback will be only my second on the memoir—the first being from my mother, who begrudgingly admitted that the story is both factual and emotional.

Obviously, she’s biased.

Holden is biased too, which is why I’m not surprised I haven’t heard from him, despite sending the manuscript with a heartfelt note thanking him for always being honest—even when I couldn’t.

“Chelsea!” Professor Pritchard says, motioning to the seat in front of his desk. He’s smiling, cheeks rosy with enthusiasm. Either he really enjoys delivering harsh criticism, or the book isn’t near as bad as I thought. “Thank you for coming in so soon.”

“No, thank you,” I say, though my appreciation may be somewhat knee-jerk. I catch a glimpse of my manuscript on his desk, the pages flagged in what looks like hundreds of miniature post-it notes in varying colors. I grimace. “You hated it, right?”

His eyes widen. “Not at all!” He chuckles, making his round belly jiggle a little like Santa Claus. “Quite the opposite really. You’ve written a remarkable piece of work here, Chelsea.”

My stomach twits. “You think so?”

He nods. “Oh yes.” He flips to the first page, where a red post-it marks the first sentence. Yeah, I worried it wasn’t quite right. “Take this right here,” he says, underlining it with his finger tip. “Just beautiful.”

I cock my head, confused. “You think the first line works?”

He flips through the pages. “Absolutely. Just look at all of these places I flagged…excellent. All of them.” He sets his folded hands on the manuscript and leans forward. “You captured so much emotion in here, it’s extraordinary, really.”

I can’t respond—his praise has rendered me speechless. Tears brim in the corners of my eyes, and I blink them back. It’s not at all the reaction I expected, but his words have given a glimmer of hope in the darkness that has shrouded me since Holden told me he never wanted to see me again.

Maybe even longer than that.

Much as I was loath to start such an undertaking, writing the book was therapeutic.

“How do you feel,” he says.

I swallow the lump of emotion clogged in my throat. “I’m not cured or anything,” I say, smiling a little. “But I admit, getting the story out has helped me deal with the past in a much more constructive way.”

Professor Pritchard is nodding again, and his eyes kind of twinkle. “This is the sort of book that could help a lot of people.”

“Do you really think so?”

The idea of making it public almost takes my breath away with fear, but I can’t imagine stuffing it in a drawer somewhere where it will collect lust. Writing it was only part of the therapy—showing it to the world is the only way I can truly heal from the past. Getting it all out in the open.

I try not to think about the people Mom and I have deceived along the way. The lies we’ve told to remain anonymous. The friends we’ve met who will be blindsided by the truth.

People like Holden.

“This isn’t just the best thing you’ve written, Chelsea, it’s one of the most remarkable things I have ever read,” he says.

My heart pulses with disbelief. I want to be proud, but there’s still this twinge of doubt holding me back.

“You should publish it,” he says.

I blink. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Professor Pritchard goes into his desk and withdraws a file folder overflowing with paper. He hands it to me, waiting until I take it to tell me what’s inside.

“This is a comprehensive list of agents who deal with this kind of work,” he says. “I had my receptionist put it together. Don’t worry, she has no idea why—probably thinks I’m writing my life story or something. What a bore that would be.”

I chuckle to mask the tremble in my hands.

“Anyway, I’ve included some examples of how to query these agents. Though, I’m sure you won’t need any help. I’m quite positive that any one of these people would be delighted to represent you.”

My mouth goes dry. “This is all so overwhelming.”

For a split second, I catch a glimpse of the stern, stoic professor I’ve known throughout the semester. His expression goes solemn. “Think about it, Chelsea,” he says, voice quiet and sincere. “You have the potential to help a lot of people with this book. Let that be how you give back for what your father took. I believe in this. And in you.”

* * *

Professor Pritchard’s words carry me as I make my way from his office to the rain-soaked streets. I don’t have an umbrella, but I’m numb to the steady pulse of the water. Could I really do it? Publish the book and use my father’s wrongs to do something right?

My white T-shirt sticks to my chest. Rain drops fall down the back of my neck, and between my shoulder blades. By the time I turn into the cul de-sac of my dorm building, I’m soaked.

But something inside me has changed.

I duck my head to stop the rain from splattering my face, and half run to the front door, fumbling for my key. A shiver runs up and down my spine. I barely notice the man standing at the door with me, until his familiar voice says my name.

My knees buckle.

I look up and he’s there. “Holden?”